


Maybe It's All Gone Black But You're All I See

by queenofchildren



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, F/M, Fluff, In-Canon, Post-Finale, Power Couple, Romance, ruminations on art and feminism bc why not, sleuthing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-01-21 14:31:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 85,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12459741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofchildren/pseuds/queenofchildren
Summary: The war for Verona has begun, and Rosaline and Benvolio are not going to sit idly by as it rages on.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I told myself I wouldn't do this. I vowed to finish "Falser Than Vows..." before I began posting this. I was also determined to have a little more written before I posted the first chapter. But it was all for nothing, because I am weak. So, here's the first chapter of my take on what happens after the finale.  
> Oh, and the title and quote is from Mat Kearney's "All I Need", which is like, one of my top 5 Rosvolio songs.  
> Also, I'm not sure if the building Isabella and Escalus are standing in front of in the beginning is a church or a part of the palace, but in this fic, it's a church.

_Guess we both know we're in over our heads_  
_We got nowhere to go and no home that's left_  
_The water is rising on a river turning red_  
_It all might be OK or we might be dead_  
_If everything we've got is slipping away_  
_I meant what I said when I said until my dying day_  
_I'm holding on to you, holding on to me_  
_Maybe it's all gone black but you're all I see_  
_You're all I see_

Verona was about to fall.

Its defenses were breached, its citizens under attack, its ruler incapacitated - but not dead yet, and not anytime soon if Rosaline could help it.

Exchanging one quick look with Benvolio, she mirrored his determined actions and helped him get Escalus to his feet.

As fear and chaos swept across Verona, the church at the head of the square became their only chance at sanctuary - the same church where Rosaline had prayed for Benvolio this very morning; where Escalus had proclaimed his death sentence just minutes earlier and then shown mercy at the last moment. Perhaps the church would help save them once again. 

The short way up the stairs to the church felt like the longest walk she had ever taken, with violence and death hard on their heels and Escalus' weight on her shoulder growing heavier with each step. 

By the time the church's heavy doors finally slammed shut behind them, Rosaline's arms were shaking with exhaustion, and she was glad when two guards jumped in to take his weight off her and carefully lower their injured Prince on a nearby wooden pew. 

Immediately, they were beset by a flurry of courtiers, all of whom sported equally confused looks, and none of whom were in any way helpful. 

"Someone get the royal physician, now!" 

Luckily the call - which Rosaline understood only belatedly had come from her - was heeded, and not much later, the man in question made his way through the crowd, followed by a frantic Isabella.

Rosaline let them both pass, taking a step backwards to allow the physician to get to work. The movement brought her closer to Benvolio, who had stayed, unmoving, by her side as if to make good on his earlier promise not to leave her alone in the chaos. He did not move away when she came closer, and she was thankful for it. 

As the physician got to work, Rosaline looked around the crowded nave of the church. The confusion was overwhelming, and not made any more bearable by the deafening noise - panicked sobs, confused questions, calls for the physician's help and the pained groans of those injured in the attack. Throughout the room, survivors of the attack huddled together, fearfully looking around as they awaited what would happen next. Some were injured, some tending to injured persons, some in apparent grief - and among them, two were familiar faces: her aunt and uncle, both appearing unharmed, though severely frightened. 

With just a few brisk steps, Rosaline was upon the Lady of House Capulet, descending on her with all the force and fury of the harpy Benvolio so enjoyed likening her to. 

"Where is she? Where did he take her?" Only superhuman effort kept her from gripping her aunt's arms and shaking her 'til her bones rattled. 

"At his palace, in Mantua," her aunt provided, knowing instantly who Rosaline spoke of.

"And in this moment, she's no doubt safer than any of us," her uncle chimed in.

The spark of anger inside Rosaline grew stroger, ready to consume her entire being. 

" _Safe_? She is his _prisoner_. A hostage!" 

"One of little consequence to Verona, and thus little interest for the Count."

Never in her life had Rosaline felt anger like this: as a visceral urge to hurt another human being, to tear at them with her own bare hands until their pain matched hers. She was half-poised to lunge at her uncle, when a pair of hands on her shoulders held her back. 

"It's not worth it, Rosaline. They're not worth it." She need not turn to know it was Benvolio behind her, and the tension in her body eased gradually at his calming words. "We have more important things to concern ourselves with now."

She let him turn her around and guide her away from her aunt and uncle without resistance, but she could not leave without making sure they knew that, some day, their selfish actions would have consequences. She would make sure of it herself if it was the last thing she did.

"If the city falls; if anything happens to Livia, all of Verona will know it was your fault. The name of Capulet will forever carry the shame for what happened here today."

She was trembling when she walked away, her insides churning with fear and rage, but Rosaline took a deep, steadying breath and forced herself to keep walking, keep setting one foot in front of the other. Benvolio's hand remained on the small of her back another moment longer, solid even in the midst of roiling chaos, and by the time he dropped it, the red mist of rage that seemed to have settled over her vision was lifting. Benvolio was right: For the moment, there were more important things to focus on than her aunt and uncle's petty greed.

By the church doors, a group of guards had been allowed in with news, and Rosaline and Benvolio quickly joined them to find out what was happening outside their sanctuary.

Some of the guards stationed atop the city's watchtowers had survived the attack and made their way here, and were now reporting alarming news: There was an army at the gates, waiting under Mantua's banners and counting thrice the number of men ready to defend Verona. And within the city, many of its central defenses had been attacked already, enemy soldiers taking the city guards' places just as they had on the city square. It was only a matter of time before the intruders got to the gates and opened them - and then they would all be lost. 

Apparently, Benvolio had come to the same conclusion. 

"We need to defend those gates with everything we have."

She was sure that the city's forces were doing so as they spoke - but looking around, there were plenty of able-bodied men still standing around inside the church, noblemen clutching their bejewelled swords and daggers as they looked around fearfully. The sight made the just-becalmed fury inside her flare up once more. 

"Will none of you great men come to to our city's aid?", she called out, and a few men at least began to look towards the door - but not to move. 

Rosaline wanted to cry and rage at them to do something, but her angry tirade was cut off before she had had time to prepare it in her head. Beside her, Benvolio bent down to a man lying beside the nearby gate, glassy eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling, and pried the man's rapier from his slack hands. 

"You heard the Lady Rosaline", he called out to the hesitant men, "defend your city now, or see it burn before nightfall." 

The threat at least brought some movement into the men, as did the sight of someone to rally around, and soon a group had formed before the gate. One nod at the guards, and they opened to allow the fighters out. Rosaline watched them go, led by Benvolio in his dust-streaked doublet and bloodstained shirt, and thought with what she could only assume was gallows' humour how convenient it was that she was already in a church: surely, nothing but prayer would see them all safely through the coming hours. 

As the gate clanged shut again, she turned back to let her gaze roam around the nave of the church. Escalus was still being treated by the physician, Isabella firmly by his side, but many others were not, and some seemed at risk of meeting the same fate as the young guard whose rapier Benvolio had seized. No doubt many of them could use help more than prayers. 

She strode to the injured man lying nearest to her to inspect his wounds, and being quickly joined by a priest, asked the man for some water and any type of cloth that could be used as bandages. Others among the civilians followed her example, and soon, Rosaline was bustling about the church with the city's women, taking care of those who had fallen prey to the morning's cowardly attack. 

The task kept her busy at least, leaving very little time for prayer or fear, and Rosaline's could not say how much time had passed when the doors creaked open again to allow in the returning fighters.

"The gates are secured!", their good news spread through the church, but Rosaline could not find relief yet - not when one fighter was still missing; the very man who had led the charge.

But just when she felt despair overcome her, the guards allowed in a group of stragglers, fighters supporting injured men and women between them - and rounding up the small group was Benvolio, covered in blood and dust but seemingly unharmed.

Rosaline flew down the central aisle towards him, a tiny sliver of hope blooming in her chest. Whatever else this day had destroyed so far - it had not taken him.

By the door, people were already helping Benvolio, taking care of the elderly woman he had helped inside, bleeding from a head wound, and by the time Rosaline reached him, he was standing off to the side alone, looking dazed and exhausted but appearing unharmed. There was no time for selfish worry, but still Rosaline could not stop herself from letting her eyes roam over him, searching for any signs of injury. She found none, and felt her little ray of hope brightening.

"Is it true? The city's secure?"

Benvolio's clouded gaze cleared a little as he looked at her, taking in her inquiry and, a moment later, her offer of a mug of water, which he gulped down greedily before answering her question.

"The gates and towers at least are secured, and the guards are patrolling the city for any attackers who may have slipped away. The most difficult part was getting the archers off the roofs before they could pick us off one by one. Now we've got guards by the gates and carpenters reinforcing them. We should withstand an attack for a few days at least."

"And then what?" 

She regretted the question the moment she uttered it, because it caused his face to fall, shoulders stooping where just before, he must have made an effort to keep his back straight.

"I don't know." From his defeated expression, she could tell he considered this a personal failing, as if it was his duty alone to save the city; as if there were not plenty of other people around who should feel just as responsible - but he had taken on the task when he had picked up that rapier and rallied the men, and all Rosaline could do now was support him as best as she could. "I don't know,"  he repeated the words, swaying slightly on his feet in apparent exhaustion.

"But I know," someone spoke up behind them, and they both whirled around to face Princess Isabella. "And I need your help."

With that, an unspoken invitation to follow them, the Princess strode off towards one of the chapels hewn in the side of the church, and Rosaline and Benvolio followed. All three hudded together, fittingly under the shrine dedicated to San Zeno, the city's patron saint. Rosaline chose to take it as a good omen. 

Assuring herself that no one nearby was listening in on their conversation, Isabella began to lay out her plan - or rather, make her demands.

"I need you to make for Venice and call on the Doge for help. I would go myself, but with my brother injured, the city needs me."

Rosaline stared at her open-mouthed for a moment. On the one hand, it was a smart plan - they needed forces to fend off Paris' army, and Venice had those forces. The fact that Isabella trusted her with such a delicate mission was more than a little flattering - and yet, right now, Rosaline could not appreciate the honor. 

"With all due respect, your Grace, but I cannot make for Venice when I know my sister to be in danger at Mantua."

She expected anger at her open refusal to do her ruler's bidding - but Isabella's face softened in understanding.

"I know you want to save your sister, Rosaline, and I myself want to see Livia safely back with us as soon as possible. But won't it be easier to do so when Paris is distracted by the force of the Venetian army bearing down upon him?"

Rosaline paused, reluctantly admitting that Isabella's reasoning was sound. Rushing to Mantua without a plan, without support, and knowing that Paris would probably expect her to do so - that would be foolish indeed.

"So, if you can keep your head and make it to Venice, I think we have a chance at saving Livia. Can you do that, for her and for Verona?"

Isabella's voice was unyielding, but Rosaline found that the challenge in it was exactly what she needed to find her strength once more, depleted though it may be.

She nodded, and the tight line of Isabella brows eased almost imperceptibly.

"Good. Because frankly, I trust you more than any of this city's eminent men currently running about like headless chickens out there, and I have no doubt that your wits far surpass theirs too."

Rosaline bowed her head, grateful for the compliment, but Isabella paid no attention to the show of deference.

"Once you reach Venice, ask for a lady-in-waiting by the name of Helena. She will help you. And when she has provided you with access to the Doge and he proves reluctant to help, remind him of Padua, of his brother, and of the traitor's coins. But be careful around the Doge."

The words resembled a riddle more than actual instructions, but Rosaline mentally marked them down anyway, hoping they would get her where she needed to go.

"You must hurry now. The tower guards are reporting that Paris' army is gathering to the East and South of the city, and preparing to enclose us for a siege. We can sneak you out through a canal to the North, but you'll have to make a wide berth around them that will cost you time. And," she gripped her hands, tightly enough to convey that beneath Isabella's strength, there was the same fear that threatened to numb Rosaline too, "it will be dangerous. You may take a guard with you, though he'll prove of little use if you end up in Paris' net."

Rosaline nodded in understanding, then startled as Benvolio spoke up behind her - she had almost forgotten about his presence in the room. 

"I'll accompany her."

"We need our city's best fighters here," Isabella replied, though she seemed regretful. "And you have proven yourself capable in helping to secure the gates, murderer or not."

Benvolio was not to be deterred.

"If Rosaline is captured or stopped, you will need a miracle to withstand this siege. One fighter more or less at the gate won't make a difference. If you want her to make it to Venice, you can spare a swordsman to make sure she does."

Isabella seemed to consider the words, studying Benvolio for a moment before her eyes fell on Rosaline.

"Do you trust him?"

Rosaline nodded before the question was even fully formed. "I do."

Isabella seemed hesitant for another moment, then she inclined her head as well.

"Very well then. Montague, if you have need of more weapons, ask my guards to equip you." Benvolio nodded curtly, then turned to the guard standing just outside the chapel. The princess, meanwhile, began pulling off the rings adorning her fingers and handed them over to Rosaline. "I'm afraid there's no time to equip you with food, horses, or fresh clothes for the trip. You'll have to make do with what you can procure on the road. This should buy you what you need." The rings were joined by a pearl necklace, bracelet, earrings and hair comb, and Rosaline dropped all of it into the pockets of her dress.

"And one more thing: Once you reach Venice and are brought before the Doge, it might be best to claim that you're already married. It may persuade him not to ask too steep a price for his help."

This too seemed rather puzzling to Rosaline, but Benvolio, who stepped up beside her once more, nodded grimly.

"We shall keep that in mind."

It seemed Isabella had no further advice to give them, Benvolio was equipped with as much weaponry as could conceivably be strapped to and hidden on his person, and Rosaline quickly stepped forward to hug her friend goodbye.

"We will not fail you, or Verona."

"I know you will not. We'll see each other again soon, my friend."

One last, quick squeeze of her hands, and Rosaline and Isabella stepped apart. One of the Princess' guards began to walk towards the back of the church and motioned for them to follow, and soon Rosaline and Benvolio were making their way through the maze of tunnels and catacombs under the city. Rosaline could not say how long they walked, until finally, they reached a rusty gate in a wall that was noticeably thicker than any of the other walls and foundations they had passed - the city's outer wall.

Together, Benvolio and the man pushed open the rusty gate, then hacked a narrow passage through the thorny undergrowth covering it from sight. A thorough look around to make sure there was no enemy nearby watching their escape, then Benvolio held out his hand to help her up the short, steep incline up from the base of the wall to the plains surrounding the city.

Heart hammering with fear, she curled her fingers around his and followed him up the incline, where they again took a brief break to look around. Far towards the East, she could see a dark shape marring the soft green hills around the city - Paris' army, waiting to attack the only home she had ever known.

Benvolio, meanwhile, was looking North himself, perhaps mapping out the safest route for them to take. Then he nodded towards a little copse some few hundred yards ahead.

"We should make for the cover of the trees as quickly as possible."

Rosaline nodded her agreement, and tightening his grip on her hand, Benvolio set off at a run. In his current state, it was not difficult to keep up with his pace, and by the time they had reached the little stretch of forest, he was more out of breath than even Rosaline in her constricting dress. They would have to find a place to rest and eat soon, she knew - but for now, they had to put as much distance between themselves and the enemy as possible.

One more glance towards the East confirmed that they had no more time to loose indeed: Paris' troops were beginning to move, slowly but inescapably. The war for Verona had begun, and it would not be won easily.

But she'd be damned if she gave up without a fight.

 


	2. Chapter 2

They needed horses. They needed a great many other things, too - food and rest and a bath for Benvolio, and clean clothes for both of them at some point - but horses would be a blessing indeed.

They had been walking for hours, first through the little copse of trees and then across the plains, heading Northwards until they could be reasonably sure to be out of sight of Paris' army and then finally turning East towards Venice. This detour meant that they had only been on a straight route to their destination for a very short time, and yet Rosaline knew they would not make it much further today - not without at least some of the things she wished for so fervently.

Behind her, Benvolio was dragging his feet, getting slower and slower with each laborious step. Two days in the dungeon with nothing but stale water to sustain him, followed by battle for their city's gates, would do that to a man. They would not get much further, she knew, even if their short stops became more frequent and a little longer each time. Rosaline pretended they were for her benefit, as her dainty shoes were hardly made for long walks, but she had a feeling Benvolio saw right through her.

By the time the sun went down, Rosaline began to fear that the best they could hope for was a somewhat soft, protected nook amidst the rocks to wait out the darkest hours of the night. And dark it would get, for the sky had become overcast over the course of the afternoon. And while the shade had been welcome as they had trudged along, now the clouds kept the moon and stars from lighting their way, and they were stumbling along more than actually walking.

And then, just as she was about to suggest they simply huddle down between two rocks to get as much rest as possible, she saw it: Lights some way ahead, not enough to indicate a village but perhaps a farm or an inn. They were saved. 

The last few steps came easier after that, and soon they were standing in the square courtyard of a modest farm, and Benvolio was knocking on the sturdy wooden entrance door. 

The man who opened it, unfortunately, seemed less than inclined to welcome a pair of weary travellers.

Still, Rosaline forced her tired face into a beguiling smile, hoping to convey how very much she was both trustworthy and in need of help. 

"We do not mean to trouble you, kind sir - we just need a place to sleep for the night, something to eat and perhaps a bath..."

"You'll want an inn then," the man growled. Then, finding perhaps a glimmer of compassion within himself, he added: "There's one a few miles further down the main road to Padua." 

Theheavy door almost slammed shut again, stopped at the last moment by Benvolio's boot - a welcome interference, because continuing to walk seemed less than advisable right now, and especially not on the heavily-frequented road to Padua. 

"We can pay," Benvolio said, though he made it sound less like an offer and more like a threat. "More than any bed in your little hovel is worth." 

Rosaline rolled her eyes - insulting the man would hardly get them any further here. 

But apparently, she was wrong: The door opened again, and the man looked them over once more, much more thoroughly than before. For the first time, he seemed to be taking in her rich garb and the quality of Benvolio's weapons. And then slowly, the door creaked open further, and he stepped out towards them. 

"We have rooms for the harvest workers. You can sleep in one of those."

"Thank you, dear Sir." Rosaline could feel her throat tightening with relief. "Your kindness will not be forgotten."

The man only grunted in response and began walking across the courtyard to a row of squat houses at its outer edge. The house he led them into was tiny, but there was a small fireplace and a bed with a straw mattress just big enough for the both of them to fit into. And fit into they must, for between the bed, fireplace, and a small table and chair crammed into the hut, there was not enough space for a dormouse to sleep on the floor, let alone a grown person - not to mention, she felt loath to put Benvolio through such an uncomfortable night, and equally reluctant to suffer it herself.

"What of a bath, and some food? May we trouble you for that as well?"

The man grunted again, though this time in apparent amusement, before he affected what Rosaline's assumed was his approximation of elegant speech. "I'm afraid all my servants are busy preparing a feast for the royal family at the moment, and cannot be troubled to draw you your bath." 

Rosaline bit down on an irate response. 

"Some cold water then, at least? And a bite to eat?" 

She made sure to soften her expression, to adopt the pleadingly innocent look Livia had always mastered so well, and Rosaline only reluctantly. But if ever there was a time to swallow her pride, it was now - and luckily, it worked at softening the man at least a little. 

"You can get water from the well in the courtyard. And if you come with me, my daughter will fetch you some bread and meat. But tomorrow, you will be gone." 

"At first light," Benvolio confirmed, and the man seemed appeased, leading them back to the main house once more and pointing to the corner of the yard where the well could be found. Benvolio seemed reluctant to part with her, but Rosaline nodded reassuringly, and he split off and made for the well. 

Rosaline continued on to the main house, heart hammering fearfully in her chest when she stepped inside and the heavy wooden door closed behind her. If the man had any ill intentions, she was at his mercy now. 

But after a short call, a young woman did indeed appear on the stairs, looking at Rosaline curiously while her father barked out his orders.

"We have guests for the night. Give her and her husband something to eat."

Rosaline almost corrected him, before it occurred to her that it was better this way. Let him think she and Benvolio were married, if it kept him from asking questions. 

Unfortunately, his daughter was more inclined to curiosity - Rosaline had barely followed her through a doorway to the kitchen when she asked: 

"What brings you here this late?" 

It was only innocent conversation, but Rosaline's frayed mind could not but detect a sinister purpose behind the words. She remained silent, watching as the girl unwrapped a loaf of bread and began to cut thick slices off of it. 

"I understand." Rosaline tore her eyes off the mouthwatering sight of the bread to look at the girl. "You're eloping, and are afraid of being followed." 

Rosaline startled at the suggestion, scrambling for a plausible way to deny it. Surely it wouldn't do to add such salacious details to their already mysterious appearance? But then again, they would cause rumor and speculation wherever they appeared, in the state they were in - perhaps it was best to gently guide those rumors in such a relatively harmless direction before they could be connected to the goings-on at Verona.

"Yes, we are." She stepped closer to lay a hand on the girl's arm. "Our families do not approve of the union, and will stop at nothing to separate us if we are caught. Will you please keep our secret? Our future happiness is in your hands." 

Smiling, the girl laid a hand on top of hers. 

"Of course I will." And, after a moment's hesitation: "I too am in love with a man I cannot marry."

"Your father disapproves?"

"No, but his." 

She returned to her work, taking out a large piece of ham as she continued her story. 

"Stefano is the son of the wealthiest farmer in our neighbourhood. His father is rich, and unwilling to pay my bride price when I can bring so little into the marriage."

Rosaline sighed. "It always comes back to this, doesn't it? Money and power." 

The girl nodded her agreement, and for a moment, they fell silent, united in that eternal feminine lot despite their different places in society. 

Rosaline let her eyes wander around the kitchen. Most of it was bathed in darkness, illuminated only by the light of their single lamp. But in a corner nearby she could make out some odds and ends intended to do laundry - a wash-board, chunks of soap, a wooden tub.

She pointed towards the corner in question.

"Do you think you could part with a little of that soap? It's been a long and taxing road here, and we only have cold water to wash up with."

"Oh, of course! Take whatever you need! If you've clothes to wash, take the washboard as well - just set it back done by the door tomorrow morning."

"Thank you!"

Rosaline quickly picked up a mid-sized chunk of soap, though she passed on the heavy and unwieldy washboard. Benvolio's shirt could stand a quick wash, even if it was just with cold water, but Rosaline doubted she had the energy for such a rigorous and thorough washing that required a washboard. A quick soak would have to do.

The girl, meanwhile, piled a few slices of ham on top of the bread and handed the entire plate to Rosaline. She herself took hold of a jug and filled it with some wine, taking two earthen cups and then leading the way outside again. 

When they got to the hut, Benvolio was just entering with two heavy buckets, water sloshing over the rim of the fuller one and drenching the side of his shirt. The girl watched him with unbridled curiosity out of the corner of her eyes as she set down the jug and cups, then smiled conspiratorially at Rosaline. 

"I hope you'll find the room comfortable." 

There was a hint of mischief in her voice, and only when the door fell shut behind her did Rosaline realise what it meant. The thought made heat rise in her cheeks. 

She had no time to dwell on the matter, however - not even enough to decide whether it was as unwelcome as it should be - for as soon as the girl had left, her father stepped into their hut once more.

"Now, how will you repay my hospitality?"

Rosaline buried her hand in her pocket, fishing around for the pearl bracelet she had decided would do nicely. The necklace and ring she intended to keep for future needs, and the comb and earrings might run the risk of making their host feel cheated, even though a single pearl off either of the pieces would feed him and his daughter for a month.

Having found the item in question without rooting around and drawing attention to her full pockets, she held it out on her open palm.

"These are saltwater pearls set in real gold. Worth more than enough to compensate you for your inconvenience."

The man looked sceptical for a moment, then, having apparently decided to trust her judgment, let his eyes wander down to the folds of her dress as if to gauge what other riches it might hold. There was a calculating gleam in his eyes that made her nervous, and Rosaline was thankful when Benvolio stepped closer, putting himself between her and the farmer.

"And they are all we have. You better take that offer."

His voice was a warning, and the man took a step backwards away from her. Snatching the bracelet off her palm, he nonetheless grumbled:

"This is what you consider payment?! What am I to do with this, hang it around my goat's neck?" 

"You could give it to your daughter. Not only will it please her, but it will plump up her dowry. Enough perhaps so she can marry Stefano." 

It was less a suggestion and more of a warning: I know your secrets, Rosaline's words said, so you'd be well advised to keep mine - and the man understood her clear enough. 

There was no more grumbling as he backed out of the hut, slamming shut the door.

The moment the latch fell shut, Benvolio reached for the chair and jammed it under the door handle.

"You think he'll come back?"

"I don't trust him not to."

Rosaline shivered. Since they had not come into close contact with anyone so far, the danger they were in had been but an abstract concept, something waiting for them back before Verona's gates. But of course there were more dangers on the road, and now they had a face to go with them, and a much more mundane reasoning behind them. More than any of Paris' soldiers, in this moment it was greed they had to fear the most.

But the door was barred, she reminded herself, and it was only now that Benvolio began unstrapping his rapier to set it down on the table next to him, though his dagger stayed sheathed at his hip.

"Who's Stefano?"

"The man our host's daughter wants to marry. She really does need that addition to her dowry."

"And you know this because…?"

"Because I talked to her, in the kitchen. Oh," something almost-forgotten occurred to her as she watched Benvolio pick up one of the buckets and set it down by the side of the bed, "and she gave us soap. We really need to wash up, or we'll not get anywhere near the Doge."

She plucked it out from her pocket and handed it to him, and Benvolio made quick work of sawing it in half with his dagger and handing her half of it.

"Did she seem trustworthy?"

"More so than her father. She assumed we were eloping against our families' wishes, and was very sympathetic."

He nodded, apparently pleased with the outcome, then looked back and forth between the two buckets.

"I would go out and grant you some privacy to wash up, but I'd rather not open that door again…"

"No, it's best we stay in here for now." She swallowed hard, memories of their last overnight stay and its cleaning facilities coming back to her unbidden. "We'll just face in different directions."

They did as she suggested, and Rosaline tore off a strip of her underdress to use as a makeshift washcloth. It was less than thorough, but enough to get off the worst of the sweat and dust of the road.

She did not turn around to peek this time, though she remembered well how that little sinful glance had made her heart race and her face flush when she had watched him get out of his bath the last time.

But given the fact that they were in much closer quarters this time, and would have to share that bed at some point, Rosaline thought it best not to risk a repeat of those unexpected stirrings.

"If you hand me your shirt, I'll give it a quick wash."

"I can wash it myself."

"Have you ever washed anything yourself before?"

His silence was answer enough, and she held out her arm behind her.

"Then let me do it. I've helped out the laundry maids plenty of times. I'll be quicker."

The balled-up shirt landed in her hand, and Rosaline set to work. She was powerless against the bloodstains, but the grime and dust would come off, she vowed to herself as she wrung and kneaded the shirt again and again.

The physical exertion was a welcome one, for now that their immediate needs of food, shelter, and relative safety were met, Rosaline's mind was at leisure to circle back to the thought that had been plaguing her the entire way here: of her sister, alone and scared at Mantua, incarcerated by cruel Paris.

But those thoughts would do nothing but drive her to despair now when she needed to keep her wits about her, and so Rosaline pushed them away and kept scrubbing, until her fingers ached with the effort and her skin turned numb from the cold of the water.

It was Benvolios voice that eventually tore her out of her thoughts.

"I doubt you'll get it any cleaner, Capulet. Take a rest, eat and drink something."

Looking up, she noticed with surprise that that was what he was already doing himself: perched on the edge of the bed, he was munching on a thick slice of bread with ham.

She might have taken offense at his commanding tone, but it was hard to protest when her stomach chose that moment to growl loudly.

Grinning, Benvolio held out another slice, equally thick and adorned, it seemed to her, with twice as much ham.

They ate, quick and silent and surprisingly comfortable, and over the small miracle of fresh bread and delicate ham, for a moment even the thought of their sleeping arrangements could not destroy Rosaline's peace of mind.

Until the bread was eaten, their candle stump was burning low, and Benvolio got to his feet. He rattled the door once more, pushed the chair firmly against it, and then, without warning, took off the leather vest he had been wearing in lieu of a shirt.

Rosaline averted her eyes _almost_ immediately - and surely, the slight delay could only be attributed to her tired state and the suddenness of his undressing.

Benvolio took no heed of her embarrassment, but seemed to strive instead to make it even worse by gesturing at the bed.

"We should sleep. Get in."

Now it was time to protest, if only to reassure herself that she had not lost her wits entirely.

"Why should _I_  squeeze against the wall?"

"Because I want to be nearer the door in case anyone enters." He ran a hand through his hair, sighed exasperatedly. "Please, Capulet, can you just for once do as you're told?"

That of course was an even more aggravating order - but the harried look on his face, the way his eyes darted around the room from his rapier to the door and back, told her that his impertinence was based on a real wish to keep her safe, and Rosaline could not but feel touched by it.

She obeyed without protesting, even though crawling to the head of the bed on all fours constituted an indignity that would have more than warranted complaint.

As soon as she had laid down on her back, he extinguished the candle and followed suit.

A single thin blanket had been left for them on the hard bed, and given that Rosaline had a cloak to wrap around herself while her companion was much less well-equipped, Rosaline found it obvious that he should take the blanket.

Benvolio failed to come to this conclusion, however, for soon she felt the blanket being draped over her own person.

Rosaline promptly shoved it back towards him.

"Don't be ridiculous. You need that blanket, or you'll catch cold."

It seemed she had, for once, conveyed her point forcefully enough, for the blanket remained on his side of the bed, and rustling noises indicated that he was wrapping himself in it.

"But if you get cold, you'll tell me."

Rosaline answered in the affirmative, though she had no intention to tell him any such thing. This entire situation was indecent enough as it was, and the fact that it was sanctioned by Isabella hardly helped. And though Benvolio had been pardoned of his crimes, there had been no time to think of what it meant for their betrothal - a state which might have made their current situation a little less compromising perhaps.

And not only did she not know if she was still to marry the man now lying in bed next to her, but Rosaline found it equally difficult to decide how she felt about the thought of such a marriage. After all, she had been forced to concede to the union, and had considered him her enemy then. But he had proven himself to be a trustworthy ally and a friend since then, and she had proven less than unshakeable in her conviction of his wickedness. And on the night before his execution, when his fate had seemed sealed, she had found herself devastated by the thought of losing him - and not only because it would have been her fault, for betraying him for her sister's safety, for failing to convince Escalus of his innocence. Beyond those feelings of guilt she would have also felt his death as a deep personal loss, of a friendship that had grown strong under duress as well as of the possibility of what else could grow between them, had perhaps begun to grow already…

This point in her musings brought her back to that dungeon cell at the palace, to the sad sheen in Benvolio's eyes and the softness of his voice when he had tried to set her free for the man be thought she wanted. To the way this very self-abnegation had driven her to surge forward and kiss him, and the way he had answered her confusion with certainty, had taken her meagre offerings of affection and welcomed them with a hunger and yearning she had felt even in those brief moments.

Suddenly, Benvolio's voice broke through her untimely musings, momentarily creating confusion between the plane of her memories and the here and now.

"I don't think I've thanked you yet."

"Thanked me?"

"We both know I would not be alive right now if it wasn't for you."

"I had nothing to do with that. I failed to provide proof of your innocence, remember?" A fact that still stung, and a guilt that would stay with her for the rest of her days.

"And yet I doubt the Prince's mercy had much to do with me. He pardoned me for you."

"He was not inclined to show any such mercy when I left him, even though I begged him to spare you. I have no idea what made him change his mind."

"I do."

She waited for him to expand on that cryptic statement, but no explanation followed - only, after a pause, a question that made her glad for the darkness surrounding them.

"You _begged_?"

His voice sounded half amused and half incredulous, and both parts stirred such wildly different feelings within her that Rosaline felt as if she was being pulled into different directions.

The amusement was comfortable and well-known; it indicated that some form of teasing or gloating would follow next which she might protest against sharply.

The open disbelief, however, that one was harder to take, though she had seen signs of it often enough over their brief acquaintance. It spoke to how deeply he had been made to doubt his own value, how fantastical it seemed to be to him that anyone could care for his life. She was reminded of other moments when that same doubt had been present, in his voice and his eyes and his entire presence: Begging for her help at her balcony when they fled Verona the first time. The naked fear on his face when Escalus' guards had reached the Abbey, and his incredulous relief when they were stopped by the abbot. And, most vividly: the expression on his face when he had tried to send her away, back to Escalus, and she had refused. Had chosen him instead - for that, she understood only later, was what she had done in that moment.

The question of why she had chosen so - that was a question for another time, when she had her wits about her and the memory of that kiss was less fresh on her mind, and thus less likely to interfere with a rational survey of her feelings.

For now, she would stick to the safety of rational facts.

"You were innocent of the crime they accused you of, and did not deserve to be turned into a sacrificial lamb for Verona's sins."

He remained silent, and the words, true though they were, suddenly felt inadequate.

"And you're my friend. I had to try."

"Thank you for trying then," Benvolio said, voice rough and thick, and the silence following them felt as if it was waiting for something.

"We should sleep," Rosaline echoed his earlier assessment, loath to accept his gratitude and thus take credit for something so out of her reach.

"Yes. We should." She could hear him rustle with his blanket, felt the straw mattress shift under her when he moved. "If you hear anything suspicious, wake me."

Rosaline promised to do so, and soon, silence encompassed them once more, and Rosaline listened as his breaths turned slower until her own followed suit.

But sleep came at a price: without constant effort to keep them at bay, her worries returned unchecked. She was plagued by images of Livia, stumbling through some dark, forbidding palace and fearfully calling out for her sister's help. But though Rosaline was close behind and kept calling out to her, Livia seemed unable to hear, and instead of getting closer, Rosaline seemed to be pulled further away as if by some unseen force, until suddenly, Livia turned a corner and was swallowed up by darkness.

Rosaline woke up with a gasp, heart racing, throat tight and heart cold with fear. With the urgency of her sister's situation freshly impressed upon her, the task she was facing seemed even more momentous than it had before: Even if she did manage to secure the Doge's help and then to sneak into Mantua, there was no telling if she would find her sister there - or what state she would find her in. For the first time in her life she prayed that her aunt and uncle were right and Livia indeed safe for the moment - poor comfort indeed.

But, she realised when she looked over at Benvolio, sleeping the deep sleep of someone truly exhausted, there was one small comfort she did have: She was not alone. And as much as she had first hated being forced together with the Montague, now there was no one else she would rather have by her side in this dangerous mission.

Laying down once more, Rosaline turned on her side towards him, closed her eyes, and let his deep breaths lull her back to sleep. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now featuring Benvolio's thoughts, because he has been made to be awfully quiet in my other fics, and that's a shame.

Benvolio was alive.

This was not the first thing he became aware of upon waking: there was the sensation of a hard bed under his back, the dust from its straw-stuffed mattress tickling his nostrils, the color of the rich burnt ochre of the roof tiles above him.

But the first scrap of knowledge, before he got to where he was or how he had come to be there, was that he was alive when yesterday at the same time, that had seemed highly unlikely. When he had awoken in the dungeon, torn from uneasy and reluctant slumber by the noisy arrival of the guards, the remaining events of his life could have been counted on one hand: Be dragged out, roughly and without mercy, to face the jeering crowd. Kneel on the scaffold, to listen to his ruler-turned-rival make a spectacle of his sins, not the ones he had actually committed but the one he was innocent of. And then, his last duty of the day: Die.

The list had remained incomplete for now; he had fulfilled only some of those tasks. The last, that one unimaginable duty, had been postponed, and other duties declared to be more pressing. He now had other destinations to seek out before he made his way to that final one: Venice, Mantua, Verona, if it still stood unburnt by the time he made it... _they_ made it back.

For this was the second realisation that had materialised on his waking mind, belated though intimately connected to the first one: he was not alone. And the person lying in bed next to him, her breathing rendered deep and even by sleep, was the very reason he was alive right now.

He turned his head towards her, watching her for one long, indulgent moment - chest rising and falling evenly, jet-black hair spread out across the linen-covered mattress, mouth slightly parted and slack with sleep. Considering the urgency of their mission, it was downright frivolous to be wasting time idling in bed when he should wake his travelling companion and have them back on the road to Venice, and hopefully salvation. But seeing as he had been ready to die for the peace his city resisted so staunchly, he thought they owed him this one moment of peace at least.

But the peace was a fragile one: His companion may be quieter than he had ever witnessed her, and unlikely to squabble with him over whatever she had decided to be obstinate about. But he could tell from her furrowed brow, her clenched hands that her mind was far from at peace even in sleep. It was easy to guess why, of course: While he himself had lost the only family he cared for, she still had someone to lose - and he'd be damned if he let that happen, after everything she had done for him.

One more long glance, then he forced himself to push aside the many, many more things there were to consider when it came to the subject of Rosaline Capulet - like the fact that she had decided to ride off with him in the middle of the night to find Friar Laurence, had defended him to the Prince, had shed tears over his fate and refused to accept it as he had asked her to. Had _kissed_ him - and the question he dared not ask no matter how much he wanted to was of course _why_ she had done those things.

But there was no time to dwell on that question now, nor to reach over and indulge the sudden urge to run his fingers through her curls, whose softness his fingertips still remembered and yet already craved to study anew.

He sat up instead, stifling a groan at the dull pain it sent through his body. The beating he had received at the hands of the Prince's guards (and the Prince himself) must have been more thorough than he remembered, for the bruises were far from healed, and still ached with every move he made.

But they too would heal.

For now, the important thing was that he was alive. And he was not alone.

***

 

Benvolio quickly stepped out to relieve himself behind the hut, then went to the well to wash up and fetch some fresh water. He ran into the farmer's daughter in the courtyard, back on her way from the chicken coop with a basket of fresh eggs. The encounter earned him another curious look – which made him wonder what on earth Rosaline had told the girl about them – but the young woman was a lot more friendly than her father, and even offered to bring them breakfast.

By the time he returned to the hut, he was equipped with a hearty breakfast of bread and cheese, and his travelling companion was awake – and rather less than presentable.

Barely through the door, Benvolio was stopped short by the sight before him: Rosaline was standing with her back to him in her white chemise, her elegant dress half-unlaced and bunched on her hip, stretching out her back and rolling her shoulders, perhaps to ease out a crick or cramp. There was an alluring grace to her movements, and he could not but stay rooted to the spot to stare. A groan escaped her, telling him that the exercise was indeed meant to battle some discomfort, and as her chemise slipped down her shoulder, he could see a a thin line run horizontally along her back.

Worry about the sight caused him to take an abrupt step forward, before he realised that was he was seeing was probably just an imprint from her tightly laced dress.

But the sudden movement made the floorboards creak beneath his feet, and Rosaline whirled around with a startled shriek, frantically pulling up her dress and holding it up to her chest.

“Have you heard of knocking, Montague?”

“I apologize – I had not expected you to be... indisposed.”

“Well, I am. I did not know where you were when I woke up, so I was going to take the opportunity to wash properly – but it turns out you had taken the buckets.”

He held up the one he had freshly refilled. “I went to get fresh water. And breakfast.”

Rather than elevate her mood, this announcement seemed to dampen it.

“Did you have to pay for it? I am not sure we should...”

“Stop fretting, Capulet. The farmer's daughter gave it to me, thanked me for the bracelet you gave her father, and there was no more talk of payment.”

For a moment, it seemed she would protest again, then she sat down on the bed behind her, nodding towards the bread and cheese he had just set down on the table to unwrap it from its cloth covering.

"Well then, will you be so kind as to share your gift from our hostess?"

"Naturally," he replied, smiling warmly as he set about cutting off some bread and cheese. She leaned forward to take a slice of the former, loosening her grip on the front of her dress in the process. It caused the protective barrier of stiff brocade to droop from where she had held it to her chest, revealing the contours of her breasts under the thin linen chemise, and Benvolio's eyes got caught on the enticing sight for a moment. He forced himself to look away, and barely managed to cut off a chunk of cheese without slicing off his finger in his distractedness.

Despite her wariness regarding the gratuitous nature of the food, Rosaline ate heartily and quickly, pausing only to discuss their next steps with him. There was not all that much to discuss, in truth. Since they knew not what would await them in Venice, the only thing to talk about was how to get there, and here it quickly turned out their options were severely limited: their host, even if he could have been moved to part with them, owned no horses, only oxen for tilling his fields.

So for now, they settled on walking, though Benvolio could not but worry about the feasibility of that plan, especially when he saw how thin Rosaline's shoes were, and how likely to be worn through before they reached their destination. But when he broached the subject, she laughed it off, showed him that the slippers' soles, thin though they were, were still intact, and told him not to worry.

Once more, he was overcome with gratitude that of all people, fate had set _her_ by his side, strong and determined and unconquerable.

They did not dawdle around after breakfast, quickly packing what little belongings they had, but while Benvolio had easily strapped on his sword-belt and dagger, Rosaline faced greater difficulties getting her clothing in order. She must have been able to reach the laces on her back well enough to undo them, but as Rosaline confirmed, lacing them up again usually required the help of a maid.

“You need to do it,” she proclaimed rather than asked, the front of her dress once more clutched to her chest.

“Of course.” It was obvious she was embarrassed at being forced to make the request, so Benvolio kept his voice light, chatting about this and that as he arranged the laces in what he considered a fairly neat order and pulled them tight as carefully as he could. The conversation he made while doing so was for his own sake as much as hers, if he was being honest: There was something quite appealing in standing behind her like this, head bent and shoulders bared before him, and in the way her breath caught when his fingers accidentally brushed against her silky skin. With his hands busy putting _on_ her clothes, it was temptingly easy to imagine working to achieve the _opposite_ instead ...

But this was not the time for such frivolous fantasies.

“Do tell me if I am pulling the laces too tight, will you?”

Oddly, this made her laugh. “Oh, they're not nearly as tight as they were before. Since I've been elevated to my former status, my uncle's maids have been instructed to keep me laced up tight and pretty at all times. A Capulet bride has to look a lot more appealing than a Capulet housemaid.”

Benvolio had known she had been elevated from servant status back to her rightful status as a daughter of her noble house at some point between their first meeting at Romeo and Juliet's wedding and the day the Prince declared that they were to marry. Somehow, vaguely, he had also made the connection that this change of status had been made to facilitate their engagement in the first place. But it was only now that he considered what it must have meant: that Rosaline's uncle had not regarded her worthy of carrying the same title as his own daughter until there was a hefty bride price attached to that title. This alone must have stung enough; that their public courtship had required things like dresses tight enough to cut into her delicate skin must have made the whole charade even more humiliating: to be forced to get prettied up, and painfully so, just to be handed over to a family she hated in exchange for a chest full of coins.

“Well, there's no need to look appealing today – we've no time on our mission to try and charm anyone.”

“Are you saying you do not wish to be appealed to either? No adoring looks and flattering smiles will please your eye?” Her teasing indicated she had shaken off her embarrassment, so Benvolio felt it justified to tease back.

“You'll never hear me protest against such attention!" And then, quite against his intentions, a little bit of unfettered truth slipped through his lips as well - no doubt fuelled by the fresh memory of that linen shift slipping off her shoulder, a riveting contrast against her skin that could not but draw the eye. “But you are quite appealing enough as God has made you, my dear Capulet.”

This slip-up seemed like to embarrass both of them – but luckily, it seemed Rosaline still mistook it for the same easy jesting that had preceded it, rather than a true compliment, and Benvolio did his part to heighten that impression by winking at her cheekily before he set off out the door.

Rosaline followed, swinging her cloak around her shoulders, and they set off for another long day of walking.

***

 

They were a good way towards their destination, the sun high in the sky, when Benvolio made the mistake of thinking that they might just make it safely to the gates of Venice. No sooner had he formed this imprudent thought than the sound of hoofbeats approached in the distance. He steered Rosaline towards the side of the road, throwing a glance behind him to see who was coming, though for now, all he could make out was the fact that they were two men on horses, possibly armed, but wearing neither helmet nor armour.

“Keep walking, and keep your head down,” he told Rosaline – so of course she did the opposite and stopped in place.

“Which part of keep walking did I not make clear?” His voice was perhaps sharper than he intended, but the men were catching up with them, and Benvolio was beginning to get nervous.

Unfazed, Rosaline began rooting around in the folds of her dress.

“They could be bandits, could they not?”

“'tis possible.”

“Then we should not make it too easy for them to steal all our valuables.”

With that, she took the Princess' jewelry and slid it into the bodice of her dress, which was stiff and tight enough to both hold and conceal the items, and Benvolio had to admit her reasoning was sound.

Still, when the two riders reached them, he prayed and hoped they would show no interest and simply pass on by, and for a moment, it seemed like he was in luck. Then, when he almost thought they were out of danger, they slowed down, exchanged a few words and turned their horses back around, halting once more just before them to dismount – and with just a few words from the bigger and meaner-looking of the two, Benvolio knew they would be trouble. For flouting all etiquette, the man addressed not him but Rosaline; a breach of manners that could only have been intentional.

"Good afternoon, my lady. Pray tell, what would a fine maiden such as you be doing walking afoot in the middle of nowhere?"

When they first set out this morning, Rosaline and Benvolio had talked about what to say if someone should ask this very question, and since he wanted her to have as little contact as possible with any potential threat, Benvolio jumped in with their prepared answer.

"Our carriage has been held up and stolen some way back. We have to reach Venice by foot."

The man only threw him a short, disinterested glance before he turned back to Rosaline.

“Your carriage stolen? That is misfortune indeed! But surely they've not taken all of your possessions?” His sympathy was pretense, the warmth he intended to infuse his voice with more akin to an unpleasant oily tinge.

Rosaline smiled nonetheless, keeping to her assigned role as distressed damsel.

"I've nothing left but what I was wearing this morning - the fiends have taken everything else."

Unfortunately, this seemed not to deter the man. Stepping closer, he bared his teeth in a perverse approximation of a grin, lifting his hand to run it along the edge of Rosaline's fine, gold-lined cloak, coarse fingertips deliberately brushing against her soft skin. Benvolio could see her stiffen under the unwanted touch, clearly forcing herself not to shrink back in revulsion.

"Aye, but what you're wearing seems quite the prize, as well."

This was going too far – and judging by the leer on the man's face, it was going in a direction that could only lead to more danger.

Benvolio took a half-step forward, which brought him closer to both Rosaline's side and their dishonest helper.

"Show some respect, Sir – the lady has told you she has nothing of value left. I advise you to leave her be and continue on your way."

"You "advise" me?" The man pretended to be thinking. "I don't feel much inclined to take your counsel. I think I'd rather take the lady's cloak and dress instead."

Again his hand reached out – but in a flash, it was pulled back, as the blunt side of Benvolio's dagger slapped down upon the man's wrist.

"You lay a hand on her, and it will be the last thing that hand ever does."

With those words, all pretense was gone: The two men had no intention of helping them, and Benvolio had no intention of letting them have their way.

Dagger still in his left hand, he draw his rapier with the other, preparing himself for the inevitable attack. The man opposite him and his silent companion followed his example, drawing rapiers which were, Benvolio noted, of much cheaper quality than his own but nicked and scratched enough to suggest frequent and brutal use.

Two men against him were not great odds, but he had faced worse before and prevailed, and the man's impertinent behavior towards Rosaline had made his blood boil enough to have him rearing for a chance to teach the ruffian some manners. Despite his eagerness, however, Benvolio was held back by a disadvantage on his side: That as much as he wished to punish the man for laying a hand on Rosaline, he needed to make sure she was safe first, and this was a hindrance he had not encountered in any previous fights.

With one arm, he pushed her behind him just in time before the first blow fell, but he knew he could not shield her and overcome his attackers at the same time. Already, his limited range of motion was proving to be a disadvantage, as he could only parry to defend himself, but not lunge forward and attack.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the two men's horses, patiently chewing on some half-dried blades of grass by the side of the road, no doubt used to their owners' antics. This was the answer, this was how he would get Rosaline to safety! Immediately, Benvolio began to work towards this goal, slowly inching sideways and moving so that his opponents had to change the angle of their attacks, and move away from their horses in the process as well.

It took some time, but finally he had manoeuvred himself and Rosaline between the two bandits and their horses, and when he chanced a glance behind him, he could see her inch backwards to the animals, and knew she had understood his intentions. He'd only need to hold the men off long enough to give her time to mount the horse and flee, and then whatever happened, Rosaline at least would be on her way to safety.

With a shout, he lunged forward, turning the tables on his opponents and forcing them into a defensive position. He had soon disarmed one of them and, with a hard knock of the hilt of his rapier across the man's head, sent him sprawling to the floor. But the second attacker, the one who had given such offense to Rosaline before, was still on his feet, and stronger and more determined than Benvolio had expected.

Holding off two men for some time had exhausted his already battered body more than he had expected it would, and with mounting unease, he began to realise that in his current state, the man outmatched him for strength, even if not for skill. And still, there was no sound of hoof beats to indicate Rosaline had escaped – what was the woman doing, _petting_ the horse?

But he had no more leisure to worry about her, for the next moment, his opponent, perhaps realising his strength was waning, threw himself forward with all his might, raining down blows Benvolio barely managed to parry, and leaving him no room to regroup and strike back. To make matters worse, he was slowly driving Benvolio backwards to the edge of the road and the ditch beside it, where he was sure to loose his footing.

He was already stood there, balanced precariously on the little grassy edge of the road, when his attacker drew back his own weapon for a final, crushing blow – and suddenly dropped it as he reared backwards with a roar of pain, raising his hands to claw at his back as he whirled around, grasping at the phantom blade that must have pierced him.

But there was no blade stuck in the man's back, only a rapidly blooming spot of blood below his shoulder. The weapon that had caused the injury was still in the hand that had wielded it, soft and delicate but holding on with iron strength: Rosaline had come to his aid with a dagger she had procured Benvolio knew not where, and had plunged the weapon into their enemy's back.

Now, she bravely held it out in front of her and slowly backed away as the injured man staggered towards her, face fearful but determined.

There was no need for her to raise her weapon a second time, however: Her attack had bought Benvolio the reprieve he had needed, and had caused the attacker to foolishly turn his back. With a quick slash to his calf, Benvolio brought the man to his knees, and was already drawing back his dagger to plunge it through the man's heart, when Rosaline called out his name.

“Benvolio!” She shook her head, eyes wide and shimmering. “No more death.”

Benvolio considered her words. In his current, state, the man was no threat. They could take the horses and be gone, and neither of their attackers would be able to stop them. But his blood was still singing with the rush of the fight, his mind still filled with the memory of the man's disrespectful words and actions towards Rosaline, and mind and heart alike called out for bloody revenge. But then, if Rosaline demanded no retribution for the offense against her honor, killing the man who had offended her would not be about her honor at all but about his own, would it not?

Slowly, Benvolio lowered dagger and rapier to his side, and saw relief flicker across Rosaline's face.

Before him, the kneeling man let out a rattling laugh.

“Weak fool,” he spat out, drawing breath for what Benvolio was sure would be more insults.

He did not get to utter them: Benvolio knocked him across the head with the hilt of his rapier in the same way he had dispatched his companion, and the man slumped forward.

Rosaline huffed disapprovingly, but Benvolio only shrugged.

“We would have had to make sure they cannot follow us in any case. This buys us the time we need.”

“He's injured. What if he bleeds out before someone finds him?”

But this was where Benvolio's willingness to be merciful met its end. Had he lost the fight and Rosaline failed to flee, the man sprawled before him, he was certain, would not have shown Rosaline the same mercy she was granting him now.

“Then he'll no longer be able to lay his hands on innocent women.”

To his surprise, Rosaline protested no more as he sheathed his weapons and stepped over the bandit's prone form to advance towards her. She was still gripping the dagger in an unnaturally tight clutch, blood staining her hands and the front of her dress, and he had a feeling she was not as composed as she had first appeared to be.

Slowly and carefully, he extended his hands and closed them around hers, stroking them softly to get her to ease her grip on the weapon.

“Let go, Rosaline. You're safe now.”

She did so slowly, haltingly, but finally the dagger clattered from her grasp and to the floor, and Rosaline drew in a deep, shuddering breath and made as if to turn to the horses behind her.

With a soft tug on her hands, Benvolio held her back.

“Are you unharmed?”

She nodded, though her face looked too hard, too strained, as if covered by a mask of composure that might crack at any time. It made him want to pull her close, clean the blood off her hands and hold her when the pieces fell apart – but there was no time for such care, for someone could pass by at any moment and inquire as to what had transpired here.

He settled for squeezing her hands instead, hoping to give some comfort in this manner.

“You did well. If not for your interference, I may not have held out much longer.” The man he had been just a few weeks ago, prideful and cocksure and barely more than a youth, would have bristled at having to admit to his own weakness, and to a lady no less. The man he was now cared not for such things, not when it meant calming his friend's troubled mind. Though Rosaline had seen her fair share of violence, she had never had to raise a weapon against anyone herself. For all her strength, the act must have taken its toll, and Benvolio would not let his pride keep him from trying to lighten that burden.

Taking her hand, he led her to the nearest horse and gave her a boost up.

“Come now. To Venice, and then onwards to Mantua.”

The reminder of their mission, and more so of her sister, did what he had hoped it would: It shook her out of her stupor.

With a curt nod, Rosaline hooked her feet into the stirrups, shifted until she had a firm seat in the saddle, and before Benvolio was even astride the second horse, she had taken off along the dusty road, calling for him to catch up.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Venice was... overwhelming. There was simply _so much_ of everything: So much beauty and wealth, apparent in the marble façades of the grand palazzi and the rich garb of passing ladies. So much culture and history; monuments of long-gone greats amidst all the signs of today's even more impressive prowess. But for all testaments of power and riches, poverty and misery were just as present: for every rich merchant, there were three poor beggars, and some of the canals, though no doubt masterpieces of engineering work, emitted a smell that threatened to make Rosaline's stomach turn.

Unlike her, the citizens of Venice must be used to the smell: The streets and alleys were thronging with people, barges and gondolas were merrily crossing back and forth, and the hustle and bustle of the markets and shops spoke of how industrious the city was - a sight of peace and prosperity which Rosaline was not used to anymore after watching tensions escalate in Verona for years, after seeing men stab each other in the streets and vow death to their enemies in bloody writing on the walls. There were hardly even any guards or soldiers around, a fact so strange she remarked upon it to Benvolio.

"Once we get to the Doge and tell him of what has been happening in the West, he may want to rethink that policy, and put more effort into fortifying his city."

Benvolio's grim remark reminded her once more of the purpose for their visit: not to broaden Rosaline's horizons, narrow as she had often perceived them to be during a lifetime spent within Verona's walls, but to find the Doge, and ask for his help to stem the tide of war.

But just as she was about to bring up the question of how they might do so, Benvolio surprised her with a query of his own.

"How much do you know of Venice?"

Rosaline considered the question, based on what little it had been decided she needed to know of the world around their city. It was not much.

"I know it is one of the greatest and mightiest cities of our time." Rosaline rooted around for other knowledge of their neighbour. "I know it is famous for its splendid art, and the culture and diversion to be found there."

Benvolio chuckled.

"Oh, diversion might be the right word." Slowing his steps, he turned his head to look at her, then seemed to think different of it and looked straight ahead once more. "But culture is not the only thing the city is famous for. You know many noble families send their sons to Venice for a time, to finish their education?

Rosaline nodded, and had to think of Escalus: He too had gone to Venice. Had left her behind to do so, in fact - just when she had needed him most.

"Well, there is a reason those young men tend to look forward to the trip, educational though it might be."

This was going to be another one of those vexing conversations she sometimes had with Benvolio, where she was sure there was something he meant to hint at, but had a hard time guessing what it was.

"What I mean is," a sideways glance showed her he was getting flustered, so it seemed at least this conversation was unpleasant for both of them. "Venetian society has a reputation for being far more lax on what they consider permissible behavior, and a young man might come to experience... diversions he might not without repercussions find in his own city. The manners at court, it is said, are much more forward, for the people are more used to meeting dancers and courtesans than noble maidens."

Slowly, it was beginning to dawn on Rosaline what exactly he was hinting at, and she could not suppress a small gasp. Dancers? Courtesans? What successor of Sodom and Gomorrha were they walking into? But when she turned to give Benvolio a horrified look, he laughed softly.

"Come now, Capulet - haven't you faced worse? If I recall, some ruffian once brought you to a brothel."

At this, Rosaline had to smile, her sudden nervousness pushed aside by relief. No matter how outrageous customs at Venice might be, she had someone by her side, and someone who had hopefully been taught better how to deal with such things. Had perhaps even... experienced them?

As soon as the question manifested, Rosaline felt suddenly that she needed to know the answer.

"Those young noblemen who were sent to Venice for their... education - do you happen to be one of them, Montague?"

To her surprise, and smug delight, this made a spot of colour appear on his cheekbones.

"I accompanied Romeo when he came here some time ago, yes. To chaperone."

An ungainly snort of a laugh burst out of her. "Chaperone! You?"

"Well," Benvolio grinned, having apparently overcome his brief embarrassment, "it was either me or Mercutio. And if ever there was a man unsuited to chaperoning, it is... was... Mercutio."

She could hear it even as he still spoke: that moment when more recent memory settled over these old, happy memories of his friends, and reminded him that there would be no new stories to tell of Mercutio and Romeo. Could see on his face when the realisation manifested, no doubt sending one of those brief, painful bursts of grief through him which she knew so well herself since Juliet had chosen to die with her Montague husband.

When he spoke again, all mirth had fled from his voice.

"I mean not to embarrass you by telling you these things, Rosaline. I only want you to be careful, lest any of the courtiers think they may take liberties." Rounding a corner, they arrived at a big open place - and at the other end of it, a building so grand and richly ornamented that it could only be the palace. "But in any case, I will be by your side at all times, and we will continue to masquerade as husband and wife."

Rosaline nodded her agreement, too distracted by all the splendour around them to protest, and not seeing how she could anyway. Appearing in Venice as a married couple was what Isabella had advised them to do, and if it ensured they would not be separated, Rosaline had no qualms against the ruse.

Still, despite Benvolio's reassuring words, Rosaline found her nervousness growing with every step they took towards the palace. They had spoken of how best to approach the Doge, but had not come to a decision: On the one hand, simply showing up on the doorstep of such a powerful man, unkempt and dirty, and asking for his help might rightly be considered less than courteous behaviour. On the other hand, such an appearance might do its part to paint a picture of their desperation. A kind, charitable man would respond to the latter approach – an egotistical ruler convinced of his own importance would be offended by it.

Luckily, there was a fairly simple answer, though one that required them to place their trust in a stranger: Isabella's mysterious friend in the city, the lady-in-waiting Helena. But Isabella had been so convinced the woman would help them and, well, they were hardly awash with allies in this city.

It took some time, and a fair bit of haggling with serving girls, courtiers and purveyors to the court, but eventually, they were led into an outlying, smaller courtyard of the palace to be introduced to a tall, blonde lady. She remained reserved for only a moment, but as soon as they mentioned their names and who had sent them, her face softened visibly.

“Isabella told me of the two of you, and your engagement.” She studied them for a moment, no doubt taking in how close together they were standing; how Rosaline looked to Benvolio quickly before speaking; how Benvolio kept his hand on the pommel of his rapier, as if ready to defend himself and Rosaline at the first sign of any danger. “Though I wonder now: Does your visit mean that the ploy worked, or that it did not?”

“It did not – or rather, peace between our families came too late. Verona is already being preyed upon by outside forces, and we need the Doge's help to repel them.”

For a moment, Rosaline was afraid that she had approached the subject too brusquely, that some more polite chit-chat would have been necessary beforehand. But then, she could not imagine Isabella being friends with a woman who would disapprove of straight talk.

And indeed, when Helena's friendly expression turned serious, it was not to point out some breach of etiquette.

“So 'tis true then? Whispers have reached us, of an attack on Verona, but we've yet to have confirmation...”

Rosaline nodded gravely.

“Count Paris gained the Prince's confidence in order to sow even more discord and confusion in Verona, and then, just the day before, he attacked.”

Helena gasped, but otherwise did not interrupt when Benvolio picked up the thread of their tale.

“He managed to sneak archers inside the city to attack from the rooftops when the marketplace was particularly crowded,” out of the corner of her eye, Rosaline saw Benvolio's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed heavily, no doubt remembering why that crowd had gathered, “and they killed a number of citizens, and injured Prince Escalus.”

Now Helena did interrupt: “And his sister? What of the Princess?”

“When we left the city, she was unharmed, and had been brought to safety. We've managed to secure the city gates and to kill the attackers already inside Verona's walls, but Paris' army is waiting to attack, and we are not prepared for a lengthy siege.”

Taking a step forward, Rosaline grasped the other woman's hands in hers.

“We need the Doge to stand by his alliance treaty and come to Verona's aid. And we need you to help us get an audience with him, as quickly as possible.”

Helena seemed to consider her plea, looking them both up and down with the quick, trained glance of someone whose job it was to make people presentable at court - or to decide who was not. Clearly, Rosaline and Benvolio were not.

“He will not receive you like that, that much is clear.”

As Rosaline had feared, their dusty, dishevelled appearance had failed to leave a favourable impression.

Luckily their new ally seemed willing to help, mustering them with a thoughtful expression as she began to plan.

"Now, I could persuade the steward to set you up as lower guests at the palace, but it might be best to let the Doge himself extend that hospitality. In the meantime, I can still receive Lady Rosaline as my personal guest and equip you with some clothes," she cast a quick, measuring glance at Rosaline, "for we are of similar stature. But I should have a hard time explaining a visit from a man, even one accompanied by his wife."

"Then I'll head to an inn to clean up instead, or a bath house."

Benvolio sounded hesitant, and Rosaline could only assume he disliked the thought of separating as much as she did - but the suggestion prompted a look of relief on Helena's face, and Rosaline figured it might be prudent not to ask too much too quickly of their new ally.

"That might be best. I'll give you the address of a good, fast tailor, so you can get equipped. And will you need money?"

Benvolio shook his head, and Rosaline began to discreetly pull their funds from their snug hiding-place.

"Isabella equipped us with some jewelry to pawn or exchange."

This made the lady smile. "Ever quick-witted, Verona's Princess. Come now, my friend - a bath and some fresh clothes, and you'll be ready to take on the next part of your mission."

With a few words to Benvolio, Helena provided some orientation on the nearest tailors and inns, though Rosaline noted that he made no further inquiry of bathhouses. Even she knew what those institutions represented, and how well Benvolio knew his way around similar institutions in their home town. The thought that he would forego a visit to such a place even when presented with a perfectly valid excuse felt distinctly reassuring for some reason.

After a brief, earnest promise to hurry back and meet her on the piazzetta before the palace as soon as he was done, Benvolio set off, and Rosaline only had time to feel the slightest tinge of unease upon watching him go before she was whisked away by Helena.

In the lady-in-waiting's private chamber, a bath was prepared by quick-handed servants while Helena laid out a selection of dresses for Rosaline to choose from. They fit her well in length, and while they were a little tight around the bust, discreet adjustments in the lacing would be enough to make up for it.

First, however, Rosaline had to clean up.

Helena sent off the servants, then helped her out of her dusty, bloody clothes and into the wooden tub - and after the perils of the day, Rosaline was happy to let herself be cared for in this way, and sat quiet as Helena scrubbed the dust off her skin with soft cloth and washed it out of her hair with richly scented soap. For the past years of her life, it had been her duty to see to the well-being of others in this manner, but she remembered her mother doing that same duty for her when she was a little girl, the comfort and peace it brought to feel warm water envelop her, and gentle fingers run through her hair.

It was perhaps not wise to let that same comfort get to her, lean back and close her eyes and render herself completely vulnerable in the presence of a stranger – but in this moment, Rosaline did not possess the strength to resist it either.

But if Helena looked to abuse her guest's vulnerability, she was being quite straightforward about it.

"How did all this trouble befall your city in such a short time?"

Rosaline gave her a brief overview of the Count's machinations, but she also admitted to some other truth: that with her city caught up in the feud between her family and the Montagues, it had been vulnerable to attack for a long time. Escalus' plan to unite their feuding families had been the right idea, much as she had objected to its execution - it had simply come too late.

"But surely now that your families are united by marriage, they must be at peace?"

That marriage had brought nothing but more pain, Rosaline thought for one bitter moment before she understood: it was not her cousin Juliet's marriage to the slain Romeo that her companion was referring to - it was her own supposed union with a Montague.

"We can only hope peace is what it will bring," Rosaline said evasively, but Helena seemed determined to maintain a bright outlook.

"If the state of your marriage is any indication, it seems Verona has peaceful times ahead of it, once freed of the threat from Mantua. You seem well-matched, and quite devoted to each other."

_Was_ their supposed marriage any indication for Verona's future? Well, it was certainly just as fictional as the peace between their houses, Rosaline thought, before her mind stumbled over the lady's assessment for her and Benvolio's fictional future. Devoted? _Well-matched_? Surely none that had observed the tumultuous start of their betrothal could ever have come to such a conclusion.

Most likely, Helena was simply being courteous - for in polite conversation, any newly-wed couple must be assured of longlasting happiness and astonishing compatibility, in the same manner as all newborn babes were declared the most beautiful, healthy and delightful creatures under the sun.

Yes, Rosaline decided, that must be it. After all, Helena had hardly had much time to observe her and Benvolio, and could therefore not possibly make a sound judgment on their union. And if they did give such an impression, it was only because hardship and danger had taught them to trust each other and work together, and friendship made them care for each other's safety.

"Thank you, my friend - and may the Lord heed your words, and bring peace to our families and our city indeed."

She hoped Helena would be satisfied with her vague answer, for Rosaline knew she ought to use this opportunity to find out as much as she could about the Doge, and thus be prepared for their oncoming audience.

And since Helena had shown no artifice in her inquiries, Rosaline decided to repay her honesty, and forego all deceit and subterfuge in turn.

"But there will not be peace without the Doge's help, I fear - so tell me, please: what kind of man will I be treating with?"

Helena remained quiet for some time, which worried Rosaline. Her earlier, polite inquiries on their way to the lady-in-waiting's chambers had revealed that Helena had spent several years at the Doge's court, enough to have at least formed some opinion of the ruler of Venice. Which could only mean one thing: not that Helena was grasping for what to tell her guest, but that she was carefully weighing how to do so, and how much to reveal in the first place.

Finally, her tentative confidante spoke.

"The Doge is… a difficult man. He is used to getting what he wants and doing as he pleases, and he may not so easily be moved by pity to help you."

"Then what will he be moved by? Can he not be swayed by rational appeal?”

"Not unless it pleases him to give in to such an appeal."

Helena fell silent, leaving Rosaline to think with growing despair that she had exhausted all founts of wisdom.

"There might be one other way to turn the Doge sympathetic to your cause…" Helena began haltingly, then seemed to change her mind again. "But I would not advise you to pursue such a course, unless you had no other option."

Rosaline became increasingly confused by this conversation. What was Helena holding back?

Then she remembered Isabella's words in the chapel of San Zeno: 'remind him of the traitor's coins'.

"What of what Isabella discovered here? The traitor's coins?"

Now that she had remembered this, Rosaline felt her spirits lift. Surely Isabella's advice would be what would help them on their mission? She got to her feet abruptly, suddenly impatient to begin.

"They are what helped Isabella convince him, are they not?"

Helena held out a cloth towel for her to dry herself with, a thoughtful expression on her face.

"They helped Isabella. But I am not sure mentioning them right away will be helpful. It might put the Doge in a bad mood from the start."

Rosaline was beginning to get irritated. Would she be dealing with the ruler of a city, or a spoiled toddler?

But she reined in her temper, and did not express that particular thought.

"Will you at least tell me the whole story, so I know what happened when Isabella was here?"

This wish was granted, and while Helena helped Rosaline into her dress and treated her hair with fragrant oil before pinning it up, Rosaline learned about how Isabella had uncovered a spy within the Doge's palace, and had used this knowledge to convince him to cooperate. Which, even if Helena had advised her against reminding the Doge of this incident, told Rosaline one thing at least: that the Doge could be reasoned with, if confronted with a threat to his city.

As far as strategies went, this was not much. But for now, she had some idea, she had a clean dress, and shortly, she would meet up with Benvolio again. Between the two of them, they would find some way to secure to Doge's support.

***

 

When Rosaline and Helena headed back out to the palace's forecourt, Benvolio was already waiting, freshly washed and shaven and cleanly dressed. Wherever he had headed to freshen up, whether it had been an inn or a bathhouse, he had not lingered there for long, or he would not have had time to find a tailor and have some clothes altered to fit. 

But new clothes he wore, and though they were much simpler than the silken shirts and richly embellished doublets he used to wear back in Verona, they were made well, and cut to flatter his form - which, Rosaline knew from more than one furtive glance, hardly needed flattering in the first place. Instead of his usual deference to House Montague's rich scarlet, he was wearing the Capulet house color today, a deep blue that suited his eyes, and Rosaline found it a startling, though not unpleasing sight. He looked like a man ready to negotiate with the ruler of Venice - and much as she may resent it, Rosaline knew that she might need just such a man to speak for her if she wanted to be listened to.

Benvolio's face brightened as he spotted them, crossing the forecourt with a few long-legged steps. Coming to a halt before them, he gave her a quick, thorough once-over - as if checking that she was unharmed, when instead of surviving hardship, she had been pampered and cared for. Then again, all Benvolio knew was that he had left her alone in the lion's den in the care of a stranger, even if she was a woman Isabella trusted.

She flashed a smile, then slung her arm through his.

"Ready?"

"Whenever you are," Benvolio confirmed, curling his free hand over hers where it rested on his arm. It was a reassuring gesture, but of course its main purpose was a symbolic one: They would step before the Doge as one; Verona's two most powerful families united to represent - and save - their city.

And strong symbolic gestures and a united front, it soon became clear to Rosaline, were exactly what they needed when dealing with the ruler of Venice. The man was pompous, self-centered, and drunk on his own power, and Rosaline disliked him immediately.

Unfortunately, that feeling was not mutual. As soon as they were presented before the Doge, the man's eyes remained glued to her, barely leaving her long enough to acknowledge Benvolio before he returned to winking at her lasciviously and making compliments too outrageous to still be considered corteous - especially since he was addressing a woman whose husband, for all he knew, was standing right next to her.

If the blatant disrespect bothered Benvolio, he managed not to show it, laughing along with the sycophantic courtiers around him and holding his tongue throughout the Doge's improprieties - although, after several lewd remarks, Rosaline noticed him moving closer to her as if to send a message to the Doge: This is my wife. Show some restraint. And though she doubted his subtle message would impress the Doge, Rosaline had to admit she appreciated the effort nonetheless, distasteful as it was that such proprietary displays were needed. Her supposed state as a married woman may not discourage the Doge, but perhaps it would at least keep her safe from suffering the same indignities from other men at court.

For now, Rosaline tried to ignore those same indignities as she plead their case and explained Verona's current difficulties - only to be cut off halfway through.

"Now, now, what is this? Such sad and winding tales shouldn't be told in this rushed manner. And after travelling all this way, it must tire you to be kept standing up for so long." He leaned forward, adopting what Rosaline thought was supposed to be a benign smile. "Let us speak of it in peace and quiet tonight over dinner - and of course, until then, you are welcome to stay at the palace as my guests and rest from your travels a little."

This was of course what they had been hoping for, since it brought them close to the Doge, and spared them the expense of renting a room. Nonetheless Rosaline wished the invitation need not mean a delay of their urgent conversation - but if she did not mean to anger their host, she needed to restrain herself and show patience.

Beside her, Benvolio must have come to the same conclusion, for he bowed deeply, and Rosaline followed his example to sink into a curtsey.

"We would be indebted to you indeed, and honoured to be welcomed as guests even though we arrived without notice."

The Doge only nodded impatiently.

"Yes, of course - no need to thank me, I'm not a man hell-bent to stand on protocol."

With a wave of his hand, a courtier appeared by their side, and before they knew what to do, or could make so much as an attempt to remind the Doge of the urgency of their situation, Rosaline and Benvolio were ushered out of the throne hall again.

A courtier led them along a maze of corridors and up several flights of stairs, and finally into a bedchamber which Rosaline thought could as well have been the Doge's own. There was a four-poster bed with light silken canopies and dimensions that could only be described as indecent. A small marble-topped table with two richly carved wooden chairs flanking it. Not just one but several intricately woven tapestries on the walls. And behind billowing silken curtains, a door led out to the Loggia they had seen from outside, overlooking the piazzetta and basin of San Marco.

While Rosaline was taking in all this splendour, their guide through the palace prattled on about the Doge's generosity and reminded them over and over again that they need only ask if there was anything else they wished for, though what that could be Rosaline knew not. The room was equipped as if it had been kept waiting for them, with fresh fruit and a plate of sweetmeats on the table, and a servant was in this very moment bringing in a jug of water and towels for the washstand - which, luckily, could be hidden behind a wooden screen.

And still the courtier spoke, until finally Benvolio managed to send him off with a firm but polite reassurance that they could not possibly wish for anything in this moment, and were more than thankful for the Doge's hospitality. Finally, the door closed, and they were alone - something Rosaline had been more than impatient for, since she wanted to speak to Benvolio about what Helena had told her, little though it had been, and perhaps to formulate a strategy for their next meeting with the Doge. 

But just when she meant to do so, Benvolio quite distracted her from everything she had been planning to say by taking her hand and pulling her close, one hand coming to rest on her waist and the other curling around her fingers to rest them against his chest. 

"What are you doing?" Rosaline asked, voice squeaking in a rather undignified manner. 

"May I not hold my wife in the privacy of our chambers?" 

Rosaline knew not what to reply to this puzzling behavior - but luckily, Benvolio leaned closer to whisper an explanation in her ear. 

"Just play along, Capulet - I do not trust the Doge not to have spies watching and listening in on us. This is as good an excuse to whisper as any." 

Dazed, Rosaline nodded, slow to catch up with the meaning of his words while her mind was occupied with other impressions: how firm his hand was on her waist, spanning all the way across her side in width and from her lowest rib almost down to the flare of her hips. How gently he held on to her fingers, as if afraid to crush them. How close their entwined hands were to his heart, and how close his lips to her ear - close enough that warm air brushed across its sensitive shell when he spoke once more: 

"Now, what did Helena tell you about the Doge?" 

Right - the Doge. That was what she had been planning to speak about as well - but sadly, she could not report much. 

"She says he is a difficult man, and not likely to be swayed by pity or rational appeal." 

This was without a doubt a very strange position she found herself in, Rosaline observed absentmindedly. But what exactly caused this feeling of strangeness? This she was undecided on. Was it the fact that to any onlooker, they would appear as two lovers sharing a gentle embrace, when really they were talking diplomatic strategy? Or was it that she was standing here like this, with _him_ , in the first place?

They had rarely been this close, and with one exception it had been either to play the doting couple before Verona and her guests, or in order to huddle together in some cramped hiding-place. But that one exception, the one moment where genuine feeling had driven her to initiate such closeness, that was what Rosaline's thoughts returned to in this moment. For standing together like this, like lovers impatient to be alone, made it even more obvious how very much that moment in the dungeons had not been as it should be. Surely, kissing someone for the first time - one's betrothed, no less - should not include tears and prison bars and the desperate feeling that time was running out. It should be done in a place like this, with no sound to distract them but the far-off noises from the busy piazza and the soft rustle of the curtains. With salty air drifting in from the lagoon, and evening sunlight dappling streaks of gold onto Benvolio's face. Yes, she thought, if ever that moment was to be repeated (and since it had happened, she had found herself thinking, in unobserved moments, that perhaps it should be), then surely it should be under circumstances like these - and with him holding her just like this. 

But that was not why he was holding her now, as Benvolio's next words reminded her. 

"Then what can he be swayed by?" 

In his attempt to speak quietly, Benvolio's voice turned lower than it usually was, rougher, and under her fingertips, she could feel the sound rumble through his chest. 

"She did not say, only hinted that there was some other way."  Benvolio's fingertips began softly sliding back and forth along her flank, a gesture that could have been absentminded fiddling or a gentle caress, and that was as like to drive her mad as the fact that she knew not if there was purpose behind it or instinct. She took a deep breath, felt with irritation how her lungs seemed to fill only with a slight delay - for how else could one explain that slightly dizzy feeling, the buzzing in her head? "For now, our only option seems to be to approach him carefully, explain the situation, and hope he will see that it will be in his and Venice's own best interest to help us." 

Benvolio sighed, sending a puff of air to ruffle her hair. 

"I know, it's not much..."

But Benvolio cut her off before she could apologize for having formed so little in terms of a strategy. 

"It's more than we knew before. The most important thing now is that we are inside the palace, and will have an opportunity to speak to the Doge again." He took a step backwards, having apparently decided that they no longer had need of this subterfuge. But before he let go of her entirely, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze, accompanied by a smile that matched well the warmth of the evening light. "Courage, Capulet!" 

Rosaline took a deep breath, determined to heed his words, and have courage indeed. 

Nonetheless, when he turned to walk over to the window and her hand slipped from Benvolio's grasp, she was overcome by the urge to snatch it back - she had a feeling it might be easier to hold on to that courage when she could hold on to him as well. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The stuff about young noblemen's education and what Venice was supposedly known for was a little bit of conjecture rather than thorough research. I know in later centuries, rich/noble young men from other European countries would take a so-called "Grand Tour" through Europe, especially Italy, as part of their education, and supposedly then Venice was the place you'd go to to party hard. Between the show's portrayal of the Doge's decadent life and the mention that Escalus was sent away to get educated, I figured it would still make sense to go with this image.  
> Also, this fic is rapidly descending into angstfluff bordering on the melodramatic, and I don't think I have the strength to stop that trend.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is mostly angst with a little bit of fluff and I don't even know what I think of it. Also, I'm going to need someone to tell me if the ending was too much.  
> Oh, and a warning: There is a tiny bit of gory imagery in this one. Oh, and a Shakespeare quote.  
> Also, shout-out to Carrieeve for discussing 15th century nightclothes with me.

Benvolio had but spent a few hours in Venice, but it had been time enough to come to one conclusion: The Doge of Venice was no mere "difficult man", as Helena had put it so diplomatically - he was a bastard. 

From the moment they had been presented before the first citizen of Venice, the man had treated them with nothing but discourtesy, completely dismissing Benvolio and subjecting Rosaline to bawdy jokes and leers that would insult the most notorious courtesan, let alone a daughter of Verona's oldest and noblest family. And there could have been no mistaking her for a courtesan when they were presented before the Doge: In a clean pink gown and with her hair neatly pinned up, Rosaline had looked modest and elegant, and had carried herself with all the poise and composure of a respectable noblewoman - and the Doge had refused to show her any sort of respect. 

Benvolio had had to grit his teeth to hold back from remarking upon it, well aware that an egotist like the Doge would not take kindly to being scolded like a misbehaving child. He had not been able, however, to resist moving just a little closer to Rosaline, hoping to remind the other man that the woman he was bestowing his attentions on was supposedly married. It had felt wrong to be acting in this manner, like a dog marking his territory, and he had no doubt Rosaline had found it insulting - but if it worked at providing a degree of protection from courtiers taking their liberties, Benvolio considered it worth the risk of angering her. (Not that he had any intentions of leaving her out of his sight for even a second in any case.) 

Oddly, Rosaline had not commented on his behavior yet, which must mean she was distraught by what was happening - or rather, what was _not_ happening. For much more worrisome than the Doge's refusal to treat them with respect was his refusal to treat _with_ them at all. As soon as they had been seated at dinner, Rosaline had attempted to bring up the topic of Verona's dire situation - and had been met with evasive answers, and not a single word on what the Doge was planning to do. Rosaline had tried again and again to broach the subject, but each time she did, the Doge only claimed to need more time to think, and changed the subject by introducing her to some other conversation partner, pointing out this or that piece of art in the dining-room that required her attention, or simply involving himself in some other conversation entirely. 

By the time the Doge dismissed them, Rosaline looked about ready to rip the man's head off, eyes burning with a fury Benvolio feared might cause someone to burst into flames if she looked directly at them. Benvolio had tried to take some of the work off her shoulders, but if the Doge had been reluctant to approach the subject of Verona with Rosaline, with Benvolio he simply refused to do so, and seemed to become grumpy and irritated every time Benvolio dared to address him. Eventually, he gave up entirely, feeling like he was letting down both Rosaline and Verona - a feeling that was shared by Rosaline, it seemed when they returned to their assigned bedchamber after a long, tiring, and completely result-free dinner.  

"He barely even listened to us! We need to do better tomorrow," Rosaline proclaimed as soon as the door was closed behind them.

"And we will! Perhaps he simply means to demonstrate that the power lies with him, and that we depend on his mercy to be heard." 

"But are we really so dependent? Did he not sign the alliance treaty?" 

"He did. But he is currently the stronger partner in that alliance, and he knows it. Unless we can either find some way to force his hand, or offer him something he wants, I'm afraid we've no way of moving him to treat with us." 

Rosaline huffed irritably. 

"What is the point of having allies if they need to be bribed or blackmailed into helping?" 

He knew not what to reply to this. Benvolio himself was hardly a masterful diplomat, and though his uncle had taken care to educate him on the political situation of their home region, and to impress upon him the importance of strategic thinking, Benvolio had never developed his uncle's taste for scheming and manipulation. Nonetheless, he decided, if the Doge would not listen to him anyway, he would simply spend his time in silence, watching and listening and trying to gather as much information as he could in the hope of finding something that would help them. 

But when he turned to tell Rosaline about this plan, she had already retreated behind the screen to change and wash, and when she came back, her expression was closed off, her voice toneless as she bid him goodnight and blew out her candle. By the time Benvolio climbed into bed a little later, she had turned onto her side, facing away from him, and appeared fast asleep. 

He could not blame her for feeling dejected and retreating from conversation - she had presented a calm, courteous facade all evening when inside she must have grown increasingly frustrated. At least in the relative safety of their bedroom, she ought to be able to drop that mask. But it nonetheless made him uneasy to see how quickly silence had managed to fester between them: one obstacle had been enough to make them retreat behind walls of fear and despair. 

And behind those walls, Benvolio soon found out, lay restless sleep, dark memories, and blood-soaked dreams.  

Benvolio's death sentence may have been revoked at the last moment by Prince Escalus, but in his sleep, it was proclaimed once more, and he dragged to Verona's market place. Under the jeers and chants of the angry mob, he knelt on the wooden stage once more, and once more laid his head on the chopping block, his nostrils filling with the metallic tang of all the blood that had been spilled there before. His own blood would be next, Benvolio knew, and though he wanted to stay strong under the hateful eyes of Verona's people, and even more under Rosaline's tearful gaze, he had felt nothing but overwhelming fear in that moment; a fear so deep it must have settled in his bones, for he could still feel it there whenever he was not otherwise distracted, cold and heavy and aching. 

And on this night, once sleep had left his mind defenseless, there was no salvation, no call to halt the proceedings - only the high-pitched whistle of steel slashing through the air and the cold edge of a blade and hot, slicing pain…- and before all had gone dark, he fancied he looked up once more, seeking out the last thing that had given him comfort before. But in his cruel mind, even Rosaline's face, soft and tearstained and full of sorrow for him as it had been when he laid eyes on her in the crowd, suddenly became twisted with disdain, and left his soul to depart with not a shred of comfort. 

When it did, rather than glimpsing the gates of heaven, Benvolio saw storms raging above his head and flames licking at him from below, and in the distance a ghostly, shrouded figure was beckoning him closer. He heeded the order with slow, uncertain steps, whie the figure took off its shroud - and Benvolio recognised his father, with that certainty of recognition only possible in dreams, for Benvolio had only a vague recollection of what his father had looked like. But even if there had been a clearer image of his father in Benvolio's mind, it would not have been recognisable: The man before him was ragged and worm-eaten, grey flesh falling off his bones, and his face covered in bloody froth - the face of a man dying painfully of poison.

Even as the spectre was writhing in pain and tearing at his own bloodstained face, still it beckoned, called his name and plead for him to come closer. Benvolio shook his head, terrified - only for two more ghostly figures to appear before him, and join his father in his appeals: Romeo and Mercutio, both bleeding from gushing stab wounds, both looking as empty-eyed and grey as his father.

"Join us!", they called, "Join us and stay with us forever!"

He wanted to tell them that he did not want to join them, could not afford to because there was yet something left for him to do in that earthly realm, someone waiting for him… but he had no voice, and the name of that someone he needed to return to was threatening to slip from his mind like sand through an hourglass. Steadily, the figures lured him closer, exerting some mysterious pull that made him take one reluctant step after the other, all the while trembling with fear. But the name that held him back was not quite fled yet, it still lingered at the edges of this nightmare, if only he could bring himself to remember…

And with superhuman effort, he did, and the name was wrenched from his painfully sore throat. He called it out over and over again, pleading with her to  save him - and suddenly, there was a pair of cool hands cradling his face, a voice calling out to him, and he awoke.

"Benvolio!"

If sleep had dragged him to the depths of hell, upon opening his eyes Benvolio briefly thought he had found his way to heaven after all, though he would have imagined a great deal more blinding light, which was mostly absent in this moment. Still, he could make out a  billowing white canopy above him, and before it a creature that for a moment his sleep-addled mind took for an angel, before he realised it was Rosaline. Bent over him, she had been the one to call out his name, face filled with worry - and, he noted immediately, none of the disdain his dream had fooled him into seeing there.

"You were dreaming," she murmured soothingly, while Benvolio was still frantically looking around, nightshirt clinging to his clammy skin, heart racing with terror, as he confirmed that the feverish hellscape he had dreamed up had been nothing more than a nightmare indeed. "Just dreaming," Rosaline repeated. "You're safe now. You will not be hurt. You're safe." The repetition began to sound like a chant, some prayer she was urging him to chime in with.

But when he tried to speak, his voice offered nothing but a hoarse croak.

Rosaline held up a hand to stop his efforts.

"Hush, rest a moment."

She clambered off the bed, where she had been kneeling next to him, and returned shortly with a goblet of watered-down, sweetened wine from the little table across the room.

"Drink something."

Sitting up was a slow, arduous process, for every muscle in his body seemed to have cramped up with fear, and the tension was only now slowly beginning to unfurl. He wondered how long he had remained in that agitated state, for he felt drained, and even the simple task of crawling up to the padded wooden headboard of the bed to lean against it exhausted him.

The wine Rosaline offered him was cool and welcome, and soothed his throat enough to allow him to speak.

"I dreamed of my father."

Rosaline sat on the bed next to him, mirroring his posture but turning her head to look at him inquisitively.

"You remember him?"

"Not well, no - but I knew it was him somehow." And recalling his dream, he understood why now: for the same reason Benvolio had suspected was behind his uncle's hatred towards him. Benvolio had often been told that he looked like his father, and in his dream, that likeness had been apparent too, even under all the rot and blood on his father's face. Benvolio shuddered as he described the sight, voice hollow and chest tight. "He was asking me to join him in the afterlife, and all the while dying of poison before my very eyes..."

"It was a nightmare," Rosaline interjected, eager to calm him. "It made you see things that aren't true…"

"It was the truth!", he cut her off, harsher than she deserved - but though he felt scared of speaking out the truth of his father's death, as if saying it out loud would conjure it into existence, at the same time Benvolio was unable to keep the painful knowledge bottled up inside him for even one more second. "My father was poisoned. My aunt came to tell me, the night before the execution, and my uncle all but confirmed it. He killed his own brother, all for the title of Lord Montague."

Rosaline drew in a sharp, shocked breath.

"Surely not…"

"'tis the truth. Apparently, I am to be happy I was spared myself, and taken into his care."

Bitterness washed over him, so strong and acute it made him feel nauseous... and with it, a line of thinking he had forbid himself from pursuing a long time ago: The question of how different his life might have been if his parents were still alive. He would have been raised as the heir to House Montague, not kept on as a spare. Would have been protected from his uncle's machinations, not to mention the constant criticisms and casual cruelty.

He would have been _loved_.

And his uncle in his greed had robbed him of all of that, and left him alone in the world, with nothing but rage inside him and no idea what to do with it.

But as if she had picked up on his helplessness, crafty Rosaline already had a suggestion on hand.

"You should tell the Prince. Have your uncle brought to justice for his crimes."

"He'll deny it all, and it will be my word against his. And for what?"

"So you can claim your rightful place, as heir of House Montague!"

"House Montague!" Benvolio laughed derisively. "A cursed house – perhaps it should have died with Romeo and me. The last generation of Montagues to terrorise the citizens of Verona."

"Don't say that!" Rosaline's voice was harsh suddenly, her fingers digging into his arm when she gripped him, though only for a moment before she let go again. " _Never_ say that."

He was reminded of her second visit in the dungeon, of her voice when Benvolio had claimed that it mattered not if she had failed to prove his innocence. That it mattered not if he would die, as long as it meant a chance at peace for Verona, and happiness for Rosaline. The very thought seemed to have offended her, and her very being unwilling to accept it and give up on him.  
  
It was a powerful, comforting memory, he knew from having recalled it several times since that encounter, but in this moment, bitterness and rage held too tight a grip on him to allow for comfort.

"Sweet Capulet, I'm not so different from my uncle as you think, nor as far removed from violence. Remember that bandit on the road? If not for you, I'd have killed him without a second thought. The masked attacker in Verona too, had I been given a chance. Hell, if you had handed me a knife when I walked towards the executioner and set your beloved Prince before me, perhaps I would have killed him as well. Even if I were to take over as Lord Montague one day, who's to say my wretched house won't be led by just another cruel tyrant then?"

He had spoken crudely on purpose, mocking her relationship with Prince Escalus to further incite her rage, but Rosaline remained calm.

" _I_ am saying it. For I know you, and I know you are nothing like your uncle. You're kind and brave and _good_. But you have been wronged and abandoned by people who were supposed to protect you, and you have every right to be angry."

Oddly, it was the very idea hat he had a right to anger that made his fury abate, made the hot-iron-grip of it loosen around his heart. For even if he had managed to hold on to that anger, how could he ever direct it at _Rosaline_ , the very person who had tried, at great personal sacrifice, to help him? Whose friendship and good opinion of him he had refused to give up on, even when he thought he stood to lose his life entirely. Who was even now reaching out to take his hand, as if to show him without words that she was not afraid of him, no matter how hot his blood ran, how gory his nightmares turned.

He welcomed the gesture, fingers curling around hers tightly, but his throat was too tight to allow a reply. Apparently, Rosaline took this to mean that he was not convinced yet, for she restated her point once more.

"What your uncle did to you, and the Prince and others – it was wrong, and terrible, and no one can tell me you deserved that."

She fell silent, but Benvolio knew her well enough by now to know it was a mere pause, allowing her mind to speed along to her next words. He was right: shortly after, she spoke again, halting and hesitant at first and then increasingly firm.

"Some time ago, when you saved me from Truchio's attack, I claimed that all the ill that had befallen Verona was your fault.”

He remembered it, though only faintly – too much else had happened since then. But he still recalled how her angry words had stung, particularly since she had voiced aloud all the ugly thoughts that had marched endlessly through his head ever since the fateful night of Mercutio's death.

Rosaline took a deep breath.

"That was the worst thing I have ever said to anyone. It was callous and untrue, and all the grief and pain I felt over Juliet's death are not enough to justify it." Her fingertips were softly running along the edge of his knuckles now, and he wondered if the gesture was initiated on purpose or as an outlet for her nerves. "On that day, you summed up my words as a demand to sacrifice your own life and I.... I would not want you to think like that in the future; like your life is less valuable than someone else's, or your happiness less important."

She squeezed his hand but did not drop it, and Benvolio only became aware now of how extraordinary the gesture really was. After all, they were both in their nightclothes, sitting almost shoulder-to-shoulder on a bed they had no right to share, and though there was nothing untoward about the act of her reaching out to offer comfort, the fact remained that their entwined hands rested on his thigh, with no barrier between their skin but the fine linen shirt he had borrowed from some courtier by way of Helena – more for Rosaline's sake than his own. Still, though his modesty was far from easily affronted, and though he was covered from shoulder to knee and Rosaline beside him was wearing an equally modest nightgown, Benvolio was suddenly all too aware of the intimacy of the situation.

He had been with plenty of women in plenty of beds before, but never had he felt more naked than he did now, with Rosaline's painfully honest apology hanging in the air between them, and her eyes when he met them steadfast and full of that conviction he had seen there before, and which only she seemed to hold in all the world: That he was _worthy_.

It was suddenly too much, and Benvolio had to avert his eyes, though he forced himself not to pull away his hand even as he could feel it turn clammy with sweat. If she was brave enough to offer such contact, he would not insult her by rejecting it.

Still, he was flustered, and it fell to Rosaline to speak.

"And that is why I think you should tell the world what your uncle did. To make him pay, and to demand the respect Verona owes you."

"I know not how I can. The Prince is no friend of mine, and even if Verona is saved, he will not risk disturbing that peace again just to intervene in a squabble for succession within House Montague. I fear my uncle will not be brought to justice."

Rosaline huffed.

"Would that I were a man – I would eat his heart in the marketplace!"

Benvolio had to smile, equal parts moved by her protectiveness and amused by the bloodthirsty imagery.

"Quite the promise of violence."

"'tis just a saying," Rosaline defended herself, though he had meant no reproach. "Though I could always come at him with a dagger. You've seen me do it."

"Aye, and quite the sight it was," Benvolio agreed, before something occurred to him. "Where did you even find that dagger?"

"It was strapped to the saddle on one of the horses."

This was a subject he had been meaning to bring up himself, and had not yet had an opportunity to do so.

"You were supposed to take one of those and get away."

"And leave you behind?" Rosaline sounded genuinely affronted.

“The sole purpose of coming along on this mission was so that I could protect you.”

“And you'd find it difficult to do so if you died before we even reached Venice, would you not?” There was a hint of a teasing smile in her voice now, Benvolio fancied. “Besides... it seems I have begun to feel responsible for you too.”

When he turned his head, he could see her smile in the half-light, and Benvolio felt a warmth wash over him that made the images of his dream fade just a little bit.

“You have, hm?”

“Yes.” Her eyes met his, and held his gaze with a steadiness and intent that turned them into something binding, a promise she made in that moment, and repeated it in other words. “We will simply keep each other safe from now on.”

Benvolio hummed his agreement, his mind too busy to settle on the right words. Not for the first time since they had embarked upon this voyage, he wondered what Rosaline thought they were to each other now, for he himself certainly had no idea. Officially, their betrothal had been dissolved when he had been accused of murder. But they were still friends, still held a place in each other's lives, and on the few occasions where Benvolio had let himself wonder what they would be in the future, the thought that they would part ways after this mission and bind themselves to someone else was strange. As much as he had protested against marrying her when that union had first been forced upon him, now his mind protested against the idea of any _other_ union, any other woman put in her place and expected to fill it in the same way. It seemed impossible – but with things being as they were, it was luckily not something he had to think about now, for it would be a long time still until marriages were a topic of interest to Verona once more, and who knew what might happen until then.

Silence fell over them, and Benvolio welcomed it. He had nothing else to say on the subject of his uncle, nothing but pain to expect from continuing to speak of his father, and no solution ready for the question of their future, together or apart.

Rosaline seemed to feel the same way, for she fell silent too, or at the very least renounced conversation in favor of humming quietly to herself, some simple melody that sounded vaguely familiar.

Benvolio listened for a few moments, until curiosity got the better of him. “What song is this?”

“I do not know the name. But my mother used to sing it to Livia and me when we were young, and I never forgot the words. Sometimes, long after my parents died, I would still sing it for Livia when she was sad, even though we were grown too old for lullabies.”

“Will you.... will you sing it for me?”

There was silence for a moment, during which Benvolio was half convinced Rosaline would deny the request, and felt silly for making it in the first place. But then she began to sing, soft and quiet but with a warm, rich voice.

_"Sleep my child and peace attend thee / all through the night."_

Just like Rosaline had said, it was a lullaby, and one that stirred something like familiarity within Benvolio too, even if no clear memory emerged to go with the sound. Perhaps he too had been sung it as a child, and had forgotten.

_"Guardian angels God will send thee / all through the night."_

With a sigh, Benvolio leaned his head back against the padded headboard. He felt sleep begin to turn his head fuzzy and his limbs heavy, but he dared not close his eyes yet, too afraid to see the images of his dream return. So he stared at the wall ahead, bright with moonlight, and listened to Rosaline's song. It seemed to weave a spell over the quiet room, evoking all the peace and promised protection of the evening blessing he himself remembered hearing as a child.

“ _Soft the drowsy hours are creeping / hill and dale in slumber steeping...”_

Rosaline continued, and though Benvolio did not give himself over to sleep just yet, the sound of her voice and the persistent soothing motion of her fingertips eventually lulled him into some state akin to peace.

“ _I my loved ones' watch am keeping / all through the night.”_

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this story is coming along nicely! The Doge's Palace is definitely not portrayed accurately, bc I found it difficult to get that much information on its exact layout and use, or I would have had to spend a lot more time doing research instead of simply writing. Also, I don't think Helena is actually a noblewoman, so I guess referring to her as "Lady Helena" is incorrect, but it also sounds rude for people to just call her Helena, so the title stays as a courtesy. (Again, no time to actually research this.)  
> Okay, I think that was it - this chapter is just an excuse to have those two spend a lot of time together and get to know each other and keep falling in love. And also for Rosaline to discover a new delicacy, and Benvolio to discover a side of Rosaline he was trying very hard not to think about, because he's decent like that.

The next morning, Rosaline was gone. 

Rationally, Benvolio knew this ought not to worry him overmuch, for even in Venice, he assumed, proper young ladies did not simply disappear from their beds (particularly when there was someone lying right next to them). Still, they knew not whom to trust in this city, where the mores and morals were so different from what Rosaline had been brought up to expect, and even if he knew she could hold her own, Benvolio disliked the thought of who she might come into contact with.

Going to find her was therefore an easily made decision, and Benvolio slipped out of bed, put on the new clothes he had equipped himself with, and set off to find her. She was not in any of the Doge's more public reception rooms, where courtiers might mingle even when he was not present. Nor was she in the courtyard, or in the Basilica adjacent to the palace, where he thought for a moment she might have retreated to pray. 

By the time it finally occurred to him that the answer to her whereabouts might not be a place but a person, Benvolio's nervous worry was undeniable - and his reaction when he turned a corner near their chamber to see Rosaline approaching alongside the Lady Helena an unsettling mixture of irritation and relief. 

"You know, you are making it very difficult to keep you safe," he said by way of a greeting, and Rosaline looked slightly taken aback.

"Safe from what? I was breaking fast with my friend." 

"And how was I to know that, if you went traipsing off without me?" His voice was unreasonably harsh, he knew - but with only one person left in the world to care about, he figured it was quite understandable that he wanted to know them safe and near and not exploring possibly hostile surroundings.

"You needed sleep." 

"I…" Exasperation made his words stutter - an increasingly familiar feeling around his Capulet betrothed. "And you needed what, exactly? More excitement?" 

Now Rosaline looked somewhat annoyed. 

"If you must know, I was going to go speak with the Doge again, and we both know he dislikes you for some reason." 

That reason, Benvolio was fairly sure, was the fact that the Doge thought he was truly Rosaline's husband. 

"But," her face fell, "I was informed that the Doge never rises before noon. So I made a visit to Lady Helena instead, and she introduced me to a delicious new beverage. You should try it some time - it is called "caffè", and Venice has only recently begun to import it from the Ottomans. It is quite invigorating."

"Yes, you do seem rather... invigorated."

"We shall get you a cup as well," Rosaline exclaimed, still with that cheerfulness that Benvolio was beginning to find suspicious. "For Helena has promised us a special treat, and I am sure you'd like to be fully alert for it." She paused, building up expectation, before she continued: "Apparently, while the Doge likes to boast of his art, he does not like to actually spend all that much time looking at it. So the portrait gallery is usually deserted, and Helena says no one would mind if she snuck us in there."

Benvolio was beginning to understand by now what Rosaline was aiming at: After last night, she was eager to distract him from his dark thoughts, and to offer any amusement that would keep his mind occupied. It felt uncomfortably like pity, and for a moment Benvolio was childishly tempted to decline the offer. But looking at Rosaline's excited face, he could not but see the truth of the offer: one made out of friendship, and a genuine desire to see him feel better. How could he possibly find fault with that?

Smiling, he extended an arm each to Rosaline and her friend. 

"How can I refuse such a generous offer? Lead the way, Lady Helena." 

The Lady did as she was bid, and soon Benvolio found himself in the gallery, a long, bright room that had been designed for the sole purpose of best displaying art to its advantage, and by someone who knew what they were doing. Tall windows - another sign of Venice's wealth - allowed in plenty of light, and mirrors and chandeliers were there to ensure the artworks shone even when there was no natural light to be had. 

And the artwork itself was magnificent. He recognised the styles of several painters whose names had been whispered in reverent tones throughout the Northern cities, and whose mastery of their art was supposed to be known even beyond those borders. He had been fortunate enough to be allowed to visit some of the cities where dwelt these masters, but since the aim of these trips had been education in the arts of commerce, politics, and war, Benvolio had not had much occasion to truly appreciate their riches. And now, that was precisely what he did. 

For long moments, he simply stood and stared, taking in the whole effect of the room, before he slowly began walking, stopping every few steps to immerse himself in another scene, finding himself transported within minutes from the heights of Olympus to some biblical scene of old or far-off battle - and each painting boasting more complex subjects, rich colours, and balanced proportions. 

The sight made him feel humble and uplifted at the same time, and replenished his soul with the fact that, even in this dreary world, there was always beauty to be found.

By the time he returned to Rosaline's side, who had been making her way down the gallery at a much slower and less greedy pace, Benvolio was sure he must look like some overexcited little boy, and it took him a moment to even realize their guide was gone.

"Where is Helena?" 

"She was called away to see to some errand, but she promised to be back shortly." 

Rosaline looked at him briefly, smiling so subtly he was not sure the smile was even meant for him, and then turned her attention back to the painting before her. 

"Have you found your favorite?", he inquired, an assumption based on the concentration with which she studied the work. 

"I am not entirely sure yet." 

She tilted her head sideways, perhaps to follow the pale limbs on the canvas up to the dark, muscular arms that gripped them: Hades carrying a struggling Persephone off to the underworld, a flower crown still in her hair. Between her doleful expression and the way she struggled against her captor's iron grip, it was clear that the maiden had no desire to go with the god of the underworld - but as they well knew, go with him she must.

Benvolio found it quite a violent scene, off-puttingly so, but that seemed not to deter Rosaline from continuing to study it.

"The style and execution of the painting is admirable, at least to my untrained eye, but I am finding myself disappointed with the way the scene is depicted. I for one had always hoped that the story had been distorted as it was passed down, and that in truth she went willingly."

"This artist seems to think she did not."

"They always think that," she said derisively, with a force that confused him until she explained further: "After all, everyone immediately assumed you had abducted me against my will. No one even stopped to consider the possibility that I may have decided to come on my own, no force necessary."

"And that vexes you?"

"It does! I would like people to think me capable of having some say in whence I remove myself, without needing to be dragged there by some man."

" _I_ know you are " 

"You do, perhaps. But too many people do not, and frankly, this kind of thinking makes for terribly boring stories about my sex. We seem ever destined to suffer, and be dragged about, and never to enjoy ourselves. After all, so many women are being abducted in art, and very few seduced."

She sounded a little wistful at that, and Benvolio, perhaps too hastily, decided that some light teasing might cheer her up - for he had by now learned that there were degrees to her outrage at his jests, and had become steadily more apt at finding the right note to draw a smile from her.

"I always assumed a proper young lady such as yourself ought not to know much about seduction." 

Her lashes fluttered in embarrassment, her eyes darting this way and that, and Benvolio was suddenly afraid he had gone too far in his teasing. 

But Rosaline was not so easily flustered - soon, her gaze bravely found his, and her voice was steady when she replied:

"Oh, I wager I know but very little - our Nurse made sure of that. Still..." a small smile snuck onto her face, one he could swear would not look amiss on some puckish woodsprite, "I do know _some_ things." 

They were his own words, he realised after a moment - but they had been spoken in a different context, and hinting at very different things. He had merely meant to imply that he knew she was a woman with her own secrets, although in hindsight he realised the words might have come off as a silly boy's boast at best, or a threat to reveal her relationship with the Prince at worst.

Now, the words took on some different meaning, meant merely to tease but turning quickly into a riddle his mind could not resist: What _exactly_ did she know - and what might she want to be taught? What would it be like to answer her unspoken enquiry, and show her all that proper young ladies were not taught about seduction? To draw sighs and moans from those full lips, shivers from those elegant limbs, sweat from that soft skin?

What a thought - one that was as dangerous as it was seductive, and that, in one brief moment, threatened to undo the restraint Benvolio had placed on himself over the entirety of their acquaintance.

Unlikely as it must seem to those who knew of his reputation, Benvolio had not allowed himself to think of his friend, travelling companion, and erstwhile betrothed in such a way - not beyond an instinctual acknowledgement, upon their first meeting, of the fact that she was a beautiful woman. But once their engagement had been decided and the importance of procuring an heir impressed upon him by his uncle, it had felt wrong to actually imagine that duty, and to try and spin a lustful fantasy of something he knew they both did not want - and which for her, with the possibility of a pregnancy and all its dangers, must have been an even more daunting prospect.

Even when they were friends, and he thought that perhaps not getting out of their engagement might be something they could learn to live with, those thoughts had not included the prospect of making their relationship an intimate one. In short, he had gone to great lengths to treat her with nothing but respect even in the private realm of his imagination. But increasingly over the course of their trip, the fact of her feminine beauty made itself known to him, and became ever more difficult to deny. And if seeing a glimpse of her skin that was not usually on display had been intriguing, seeing a glimpse of her mind, and of the secret corner where dwelt such thoughts as he tried to forbid himself, was even more so. For it meant, first and foremost, that she harbored such a secret place, with opinions on the subject of pleasure and seduction, with fantasies and perhaps even desires in it, and she had, however briefly, allowed him to know of it - for what reason, he could only speculate on. But now that he knew of the existence of such a place within Rosaline's prickly, rational-minded self, it seemed imperative to know of its contents as well. 

The question was already on his tongue, and with it the risk of advancing too far into this dangerous territory and scaring her off, when the sound of approaching footsteps interrupted their conversation, and a voice suddenly called out just behind them.

"If only I had been told we were expecting visitors from Verona, I would have returned sooner from the countryside."

They both spun around, Benvolio teetering between the urge to jump away from his companion as if caught in some improper act (one that would have matched his thoughts), and drawing closer as he tried to decide whether the newcomer was friend or threat.

The man gave him time to do so as he introduced himself.

"I am Ambassador Lazzara, one of the Doge's most trusted confidants. I have recently been to Verona myself, and am a friend of Prince Escalus."

"'tis a pleasure to meet you, Ambassador." Rosaline curtseyed politely towards the dark-haired, elegantly dressed and coiffed man who had approached them. "Alas, our trip has no happy occasion, and there was no time to send word ahead."

"I have heard, yes. Verona is under attack?" 

"Besieged by Mantua's army, yes - and it needs Venice's help." 

"So you are here on a diplomatic visit." 

Rosaline nodded, ready to answer, perhaps sensing a chance to make their case with someone closer to the Doge - but Lazzara cut her off before she could, eyes sliding over to Benvolio. 

"Prince Escalus must trust you a great deal then. Too bad he never managed to introduce us. Though I have of course heard him mention your family." 

The challenge in the words was clear even without the man's measuring glance: Benvolio's legitimacy as a trusted ambassador to the Prince was called into question. And rightly so, for of course the royal family's chosen negotiator was Rosaline, and he no more than an accessory to her mission. But apparently, that was not a division of labor Lazzara expected to find in their marriage - which it occurred to Benvolio in that moment, he had not communicated to Lazzara yet.

He took a step closer to Rosaline, a subtle motion which he had found yesterday worked quite well as a warning against the overfamiliarity of the Venetian courtiers.

"He does trust me a great deal - after all, he entrusted me with the Rose of Verona."

Lazzara's eyes flickered back and forth between them, a smile on his face that appeared almost genuine.

"Ahh, yes, the engagement of the century, as everyone I spoke to in Verona informed me."

"And more than that," Rosaline added and slung her arm through his. "For we have since been married." 

"Married - so soon?" 

"We felt it was time to join our families - and we were right, for now Verona is united once more, and ready to face Paris and his army." 

"But you need Venice's help." 

"That we do." Rosaline had driven the conversation well so far, but had, it seemed, decided to forego diplomatic subtlety in favour of blunt honesty.

"Besides, we have since found out it was Paris and his conspirators who were behind the attack at our betrothal. If the Doge wants vengeance for his brother's death, now is his chance."  

Sure that Lazzara would report back every word of this conversation, Benvolio was quite proud of having thought of this argument, one they had not had time to present the day before. Rosaline had attempted to appeal to the Doge's rational faculties - perhaps it was time to turn to his baser instincts. If vengeance would move the man, Benvolio was willing to promise it. 

But Lazzara seemed less than impressed, his gaze already wandering back to Rosaline as soon as Benvolio had stopped talking - and lingering on her form in an inappropriately intimate manner. 

"Perhaps. But the Doge is much more likely to draw comfort from pleasure than from violence. Perhaps this too is something Verona might offer?" 

Combined with his measuring glances, the meaning of the ambassador's words made itself quite clear - and judging by the way her fingers briefly dug into Benvolio's arm, Rosaline had understood it too, innocent though she may be. 

Benvolio had to physically force himself to remain in place, and not jump forward to have at the man. But diplomacy required that he was only allowed to arm himself with words - and this meant that rather than attack, his strategy must be to deflect. 

"Verona is prepared to speak to the Doge, and to offer whatever it can to convince him that helping us will not be to his detriment - including material reimbursement. Verona was attacked for a reason, and part of that reason lies in House Montague's coffers and storage rooms. Helping to protect them will surely be a gain for Venice." 

Lazzara bowed, his interest piqued by the promise of money. 

"I shall make sure to point that out to the Doge, should he ask for my counsel on the matter. I am glad to see the great Houses of Montague and Capulet are willing to do whatever it takes to make this alliance a close and fruitful one." 

Again there was that hint in the ambassador's voice that Benvolio did not like, that oily smile as he took Rosaline's hand to kiss it before taking his leave. 

As soon as he was gone and the door closed behind him, Rosaline turned to him. She looked worried, but before he could reassure her that what Lazzara had suggested would never happen - that he would not let it happen - it turned out she was worrying about something else entirely.

"Are we authorised to offer him money?"

"Why not? My house has enough of it. If the Doge cannot be convinced by his sense of duty to help us, he must simply be enticed into it."

And he would not be enticed by the means Lazzara had suggested, that much was certain. 

"Perhaps once Lazzara has conveyed your offer to the Doge, he will be more inclined to speak to us at length." Rosaline's optimism seemed to hold fast, and Benvolio hoped she was right.

"I am sure of it," Benvolio agreed, though he was anything but. But there was no reason to dash her hopes now.

They kept on walking in silence, leisurely making their way down the rest of the gallery, until Rosaline suddenly brought up another part of their conversation with the ambassador.

"The _Rose of Verona_?"

"It seemed like the kind of endearment by which a besotted husband might adress his new wife." Benvolio had to smile at her less-than-besotted look. "Though perhaps not a particularly witty one. I'm assuming I am not the first man who went for that obvious choice of comparison?"

Smiling, Rosaline shook her head.

"No, you are not."

"Personally, my first thought would not be to liken you to a delicate flower in any case."

"Good - I've never been a friend of similes and poetic images. They are too often flattery rather than truth."

"But surely any woman enjoys being flattered every once in a while?"

"It might stroke our ego for a while. But in the long run, I would find it easier to trust a man who tells me plainly what he thinks of me than one who makes pretty compliments that he can simply pack up and move on to the next woman, should I show no interest."

"You must be a difficult woman to woo."

"Not to an honest man, I think." She grinned mischievously. "Besides, both our betrothal and our fictional marriage came about without any need for wooing."

"I personally would still prefer to woo a woman rather than have one assigned to me based on pedigree."

"And yet, that is the price for our great names, it seems - why do you think I wanted to take vows?"

He must admit, he had never considered it at length.

"Simply to escape the chance of an unwanted husband?"

"To escape the chance of _any_ husband. To be my own woman, and mistress of my own time. For you see, even in an unwanted marriage, you men have the advantage over us: You need not take a different name, and answer to someone else in all that you do. You may still go about your day as you please, pursue your pleasures, and avoid your spouse altogether if you dislike them."

Benvolio wondered if that was what their own marriage would have been like, had it come about as planned: a simple matter of logistics, of avoiding each other until one of them died.

"Once all of this is over, we can still get you to a nunnery, so you may have the life you wanted."

Rosaline looked thoughtful.

"I am not sure it still is the life for me. Once we free my sister, I should not like to abandon her for my own selfish plans." She paused, seeming to ponder something, then looked away almost shyly. "Besides, I am not the same girl who formed that plan, I am afraid. I am not sure it would still bring me happiness."

"Then we shall simply find out what will, and make sure you get it."

Rosaline's answering smile was perhaps the most mysterious thing Benvolio had ever seen. Was it amusement? Sadness? Tenderness? He knew not what to make of it - and Rosaline gave him no time to do so anyway.

Having reached the end of the gallery, she turned to the door.

"Perhaps the Doge has risen by now, and will receive us."

Nodding, Benvolio pulled open the door for her.

"Once more unto the breach then."

***

 

But the Doge's ear was no more open to them on their second day in Venice than it had been the night before. 

At lunch, which was breakfast for the newly-risen Doge, their host was preoccupied with the prospect of a theatrical troupe that was to perform at the palace later in the afternoon. After lunch, a drawn-out affair during which courtiers kept coming up to pay their respects and be introduced to Rosaline and Benvolio, the Doge insisted on taking his guests on a tour of the palace, perhaps aiming to intimidate them with all its signs of splendor and wealth.

As the day dragged on, the Doge found more divertissements to entertain them with, and each of them activities that made it difficult to address sensitive subjects in a diplomatic manner: First came the aforementioned theatrical troupe, received with great excitement, and asked to perform several repetitions of scenes the Doge had particularly liked. Once the afternoon's merriment was finally ended, the Doge was so exhausted from all the amusement that he retired to rest before dinner. And at dinner, he announced a special treat: a group of musicians was to perform for them during the feast, and then provide an opportunity to dance afterwards. 

At this point, it became clear to Benvolio what the Doge's aim was, for all these distractions prohibited conversation, and thus made it difficult for Rosaline and him to make a case again for sending aid to Verona - and unnecessary for the Doge to make a decision on the urgent subject.

Still, Rosaline tried, using every little opportunity she saw to speak to the Doge and try and sway him to finally make a decision - but all it had earned her so far were more outrageous compliments and double-entendres, including a remark on how the cut of her dress might be improved by reducing its material that almost drove Benvolio to interfere, and teach the odious man how to treat a lady. But Rosaline's calming hand on his knee held him back, and the Doge continued merrily in his shameless behavior. As the evening gradually drew to a close, he even invited Rosaline - and her alone - to what he called a "special event", to be taking place in his private quarters that same evening. Rosaline declined, to Benvolio's relief, but for the first time in that moment, the Doge's veneer of bumbling, pleasure-driven friendliness cracked.  

Benvolio asked for them to be dismissed after that, and they returned to their chambers, and locked the doors once more. But just before they left the Doge's ballroom, Benvolio looked back and glimpsed the man looking after them with an expression that deeply unsettled him; cruelty and greed mixed with a spoiled child's petulant displeasure. Benvolio wondered how a man so powerful could be so lacking in all grace and mercy, let alone self-restraint - which made it all the more difficult to keep holding his disdain in check and trying to please the Doge in the hope of finding some shred of sympathy within him after all. 

Their entire situation could not but weigh on him, and even more so on Rosaline, who must be nearing madness with worry for her sister by now. She looked drawn and fearful whenever she was not forcing herself to smile for the Doge, and in private snapped at Benvolio about the smallest vexations. Gone was the determined cheer of this morning, and Benvolio could not blame her. Instead, he wondered if there was some way he could help her, offer the same comfort she had provided last night - but Rosaline once more went to bed without a word, her expression closed off, and he dared not offer something she might not even want, not from him in any case.

They went to sleep in tense silence, each preoccupied with their own dark thoughts.

But Benvolio's sleep was restless and light, though luckily unburdened by a return of last night's nightmare. Still, he tossed and turned, and eventually woke up entirely, stirred by some sound he could not fully identify but which nonetheless made him uneasy.

Glancing over to find Rosaline as soon as he had opened his eyes was quickly becoming an instinct - but once again, he found the bed empty, and given that it was the middle of the night, he found it difficult to keep his calm at the sight. Heart racing, he sat up abruptly, frantically looking around their room. Had some danger befallen her? Had someone come to steal her away, for whatever nefarious reason?

But he need not worry for long: Rosaline was standing by the open window just a few strides away, safe and sound. In her long, white nightgown, she appeared in the dim moonlight like a ghost; some spectre of worry and grief - but not loneliness, he vowed to himself: She ought never to feel lonely while he was here.

"Capulet? What is it?"

His address seemed to startle her, as evidenced by her little jump when he spoke. But by the time she turned to look at him, there was a reassuring smile on her face, and her voice was just as soft as it had been last night; a voice made for lullabys and evening blessings.

"Hush, 'tis nothing. Go back to sleep."

Untangling himself from the bedsheets, Benvolio did the opposite instead, and walked over to the window she had been looking out of. It faced West, to Verona and Mantua, and he could well imagine that was exactly where her thoughts had been straying - the glistening tear tracks on her cheeks all but confirmed it.

"You worry about your sister." Joining her by the window, he saw that her tears had begun to soak the collar of her nightgown. With a flash of aching guilt, he wondered how many of them she had spilled alone before he had woken.

"How could I not? She remains imprisoned by a monster, while we sit here and dine with the Doge and let him treat us as his personal playthings."

Her frustration was palpable, her fists balled and voice cracking as she spoke, and it pained Benvolio not to be able to help her.

"He'll give in soon, if we do not give him the satisfaction of reacting to his game. For that is all it is, a game."

"But I've no patience for games, and Verona no time!" Rosaline's voice was harsh in response, but he could not blame her.

"And yet, patience is what we need to make it through this. And we will. He'll get bored of torturing us soon, and then perhaps he can be reasoned with."

"And if he does not?" Fresh tears welled up in her eyes, and Benvolio was struck with the sudden urge to wipe them away. It was strange to see brave, fierce Rosaline like this, to hear her sound so small and uncertain, and it made fear creep into his soul as well. If the strongest person he knew could be worn down, what hope was there left for them? No, Benvolio decided, he mustn't let that happen.

And with that decision made, he reached out and pulled her close by her shoulders, letting his arms encircle her as he drew her against his chest. He met only momentary resistance, then her hands came up to curl into his linen shirt, and her cheek to rest against his shoulder.

"He will. We must have faith in that, and stay strong."

She exhaled shakily, and as her grip on his shirt tightened, he could feel her tremble. But only when hot tears began to seep through the linen garment did he understand she was crying again, and he could do nothing to stem the flood - nothing but to keep holding her, so that was what he did.

"I know not how much longer I can stay strong."

Benvolio tightened his arms around her, a quick, comforting squeeze.

"You need not be strong at all times, nor all alone. We still have each other, do we not? We can be strong for one another, as long as it takes for the Doge to decide he will help us."

This made her lift her head to look at him, eyes bright with tears and wide with surprise. She cast a long, searching glance over his face, and finally, a stalwart little smile snuck onto her face.

"You're right - we still have each other."

Having once seemed to regain her strength, Benvolio expected her to pull away again, ever proud and self-reliant, but to his surprise, she did not. Instead, she stayed in his arms, only loosened her tight-fisted grip on his shirt to slide her arms around his middle instead.

So surprised was he by this act that Benvolio knew not what to do, nor barely what to think - but after a brief moment of confusion, he decided not to do or think much of anything, only that Rosaline was here and accepting his comfort, and so he would keep on offering that same comfort until she had no more need of it. 

When she laid her head upon his breast once more, he let his cheek rest on the top of her head in turn, breathing in her sweet scent and momentarily, selfishly, allowing himself to draw not only comfort but even a certain pleasure from her embrace - not the same pleasure that had occupied his mind this morning in the gallery but some other, even more compelling and certainly much more novel sensation: the feeling of being trusted, and _needed,_ even if only in this short, dark moment.

With her body pressed against his, he marvelled at the fact that Rosaline trusted in him so completely as to accept his comfort, even coming to him in her nightgown and letting him embrace her without a hint of concern for her honor. And then, even more awe-inspiring, there was the thought that she considered him someone worthy of drawing her strength from, and someone whose promise of support made her smile, no matter how small and shaky that smile may be. To be someone like _that_ to someone like _her_ \- what pleasure indeed.

They remained standing as they were for he knew not how long, quietly wrapped around each other in the silvery moonlight, wordless and motionless as if simply breathing was already chore enough. Again Benvolio felt that same serenity come over him that he had felt last night, his heartbeat gradually adapting to Rosaline's where it beat against his chest, and the thought came to him how blissful it must be to be able to stop time in this moment, and simply allow them to stay like this forever. 

But cruelly, inevitably, time would march on. The sky was still dark and full of stars in the West, but behind them, it would soon turn grey with the first light. Another day was upon them, another day that would require them to be cautious and quick-witted and patient, and all those things it was easier to be when one had had a good night's sleep.  

"Let us back to bed, Rosaline. We've some time left 'til daybreak."

Letting go of her and stepping back seemed impossible, but somehow, he forced himself to do so - though not quite, for his hand found hers immediately to tug her in the direction he had indicated. 

He successfully got her halfway across the room, but just when he thought he had convinced her, she came to a halt, no more than two steps away from their destination. Benvolio stifled a sigh. 

"Come now, Capulet. Even you need sleep."

But instead of protesting, Rosaline surprised him once more, a talent in which she far surpassed anyone he had ever known. Steadying herself on the hand of his she was still holding, she pulled herself close to him, leaned in, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

"Thank you." 

Then she slipped past him into bed, curling up on her side under the cover while Benvolio was still standing rooted to the spot. When he still had not moved to join her after several seconds, her eyes, which she had already closed, snapped open again.  And as if to indicate that she knew well how her action had confounded him, and enjoyed the ensuing confusion, her lips tilted into a mischievous smile. 

"To bed, Montague. Even you need sleep."

Benvolio chuckled, an impulse that felt strange and out of place for a moment but nonetheless liberating. He had just assured Rosaline that he was by her side to help her stay strong, but that comfort was a boon they both enjoyed: just like he tried to cheer her up, so Rosaline's presence by his side helped keep at bay the dark memories of the previous weeks, and made him believe that there could be light again in his life. And in this moment, fuelled by her trust and friendship and that mischievous little smile, that hopeful flicker of light flared brighter than ever. 

"I shall do my best." 

Benvolio climbed into bed, needing barely any time to fall asleep. 

When he woke again several hours later, Rosaline was still asleep, her face smooth and peaceful. She was lying on her side, turned towards him, and one of her hands rested lightly over his heart - as if she had wanted to reassure herself even in her sleep that he was still by her side. 

There was darkness looming in the West, Benvolio knew - but on this morning, with Rosaline sleeping beside him, it felt far away, and perhaps less impenetrable than it had before.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The painting they are discussing, by the way, is "The Abduction of Proserpine" by Allessandro Allori (this is the first time I'm putting a link on ao3, I hope it works): 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been struggling with this chapter a little, because it touches on tropes I usually don't like, the Damsel in Distress and the threat of sexual violence. I can say there is no actual sexual assault in this, but I should warn you that there are discussions and implications of abuse of power to the point of unclear consent. (On about the same or a lower level as the show, but if anyone thinks this chapter warrants a warning of some kind in the tags, please let me know.)  
> So, I'm just really unsure about some parts of this chapter, but I think there are still plenty of enjoyable Rosvolio moments in it.

Sleeping in was one thing about her newly restored status that Rosaline was still getting used to. At first, she had found it nigh impossible, waking with the first light as she had every day during her years as a servant in the Capulet household. But on this morn, it seemed she had had no such trouble: when she awoke, the room was bathed in enough light to suggest the sun was already high in the sky, and the noises from the piazzetta below the window suggested lively activity.

But it mattered not, she remembered after a moment of shock over her lazy ways - the Doge would not have risen yet either, so there was not much for her to do. Besides, Rosaline had no doubt needed the extra sleep after wasting half the night crying: She still felt exhausted, her limbs heavy and her eyelids puffy, and there was still that flash of worry, that ache caused by their separation when she thought of her sister. But she felt calmer today, stronger too, and she knew who she had to thank for that even before she turned her head to look at him.

Benvolio had found her in her darkest, loneliest moment, and had known to offer exactly what she needed.

Oddly, it had not been his explanation of the Doge's motivations that had helped her the most, nor his urging to stay strong or his assurance that he would be by her side and help her keep up that strength. Those things had been important to hear, especially since she had not been sure before where he saw the extent of his duty to her. The task given to him by Isabella was simply to deliver her safely to Venice and back. But the task he had taken on last night seemed much bigger: to take some of the weight off her shoulders, and to give her strength to keep her back straight and her shoulders up as long as it took to get her sister back. But though his words had been solemn and clear, it had been his actions that had helped her believe them: his arms around her, and himself a rock to lean on and rest her weary head a while.

Out of nowhere, Rosaline suddenly remembered her sister's inquiry back in Verona, of whether her unwanted Montague betrothed was "kind" at least. She knew now that he was, whether he was acting as her betrothed or as her friend - and to have such a friend was a welcome comfort indeed.

Which was why, she thought in defiance of some intrusive voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like her old Nurse, it was perfectly acceptable that his offer of comfort had been delivered under circumstances which could only be deemed improper considering their unmarried state. Though they had both been in their nightclothes, their thoughts could not have been farther from any sinful acts, and none, she thought, could judge them for taking some innocent comfort in each other.

But while this may have been true for that particular situation, Rosaline had to admit that overall, their recent adventures had forced them into an intimacy - from sharing room and bed to acting like a married couple to yesterday morning's shockingly frank conversation on the subject of seduction - that could not but remind her that they were man and woman; young, unwed, and in perfect health, with all the pitfalls this entailed.

Even now, she found that, while her gaze had found Benvolio's sleeping form merely to confirm that he was here and safe and unplagued by nightmares, she had yet to chastely avert her eyes as her Nurse would have wanted her to. But Rosaline had ever been curious, and while her thoughts wandered this way and that, her gaze remained fixed on the man before her, taking in the way the morning light fell onto his face and turned his skin golden, his eyelashes translucent. From there, it was but a short voyage to the top of his nightshirt, whose laces had come undone to reveal a V-shaped swath of well-defined chest, and whose light texture made it possible to see the contours of his form through the white linen. Luckily for her immortal soul's chances at being allowed into heaven, her bedmate still had a bedsheet pulled up to his hips, which prevented Rosaline from finding out what _else_ the sheer cloth might have revealed of him. But these were precisely the kind of musings her Nurse had warned her against, so easily excited in young women in particular, and always to be quashed if one wanted to preserve one's reputation - though Rosaline had a feeling her reputation had not made it through her recent adventures half as well intact as the rest of her.

Nonetheless, she decided that, rather than focus on individual details of the masculine form before her, she ought to appreciate the sight as a whole: a tableau of serenity that made it difficult to believe they were still in Venice, where unease and impatience seemed to hold her in their near-constant grip. Against the backdrop of court intrigue and war, the sight of Benvolio sleeping peacefully seemed like a mirage from some distant, idyllic future, where their current strife had been overcome already - or some alternate life, where things had never got so dire in the first place. Had things turned out differently, and their marriage gone through as planned to unite their city, she might have one morning found him sleeping like this in their home in Verona, with no enemies inside their gates or out, and no reason for the dagger under his pillow, the rapier within easy reach by the bed.

It was of course completely futile to be considering such things - after all, their betrothal _had_ been dissolved when Benvolio had been accused of Gramio's murder, and her uncle had had to give up the coveted chest of gold that was supposed to turn Rosaline from Capulet maiden into Montague wife. Nonetheless, after acting, for the duration of their mission, as if that very wedding had actually happened, Rosaline found it impossible not to at least wonder if what she had seen during her short stunt as Benvolio's supposed spouse would compare to reality. For this was the most surprising thing about the fiction of their marriage: It suggested that being married to this particular Montague might not be nearly as horrible as she had first imagined it would be.

Of course, these observations were still based on a fiction, and one aimed at showing Venice what a strong and happy union their families had formed. But despite the occasionally exaggerated displays of affection and protectiveness, the silly compliments and less-than-subtle glares at approching Venetian courtiers, Rosaline could find no severe fault with Benvolio's interpretation of a loving spouse. Even before audiences that would approve of a show of masculine superiority, he never made disparaging remarks about her as some men were wont to do; never belittled her or kept her from speaking her mind. His protectiveness never turned smothering or commanding, and now as ever, he spoke to her as an equal, a partner in their mission. And even if she might wonder if those things were part of the public fabrication spun to impress their hosts, his actions in private were perfectly in line with this behavior, if perhaps a little more familiar, and would suit a husband as well as a friend.

These were all, she reminded herself once again, pointless and frivolous musings, and her mental efforts should be devoted to figuring out new ways to approach the Doge. But herein too lay the reason why she would rather continue to lie idly in bed and wonder what kind of husband Benvolio Montague would make than turn her thoughts to her current predicament: For in the matter of how to approach the Doge, Rosaline had already found her solution, and she could not say that she found it a happy one at all.

It had been hinted to her throughout her stay here and even before: In Isabella's advice to arrive in Venice a married woman, in Helena's reluctance to disclose all the ways she knew of obtaining her liege's favour, in Ambassador Lazzara's leering suggestions and, of course, in the Doge's own behaviour towards her.

Until this morning, she had not wanted to let the thought fully manifest, had not wanted to admit that it was the only option left - but it was, and with her strength now replenished, Rosaline felt ready to confront that option: If she wanted the Doge to help them, she would have to give him the favour he so clearly sought from her, and had pursued shamelessly since her very arrival.

She was not naive enough to consider this interest a compliment, or a sign that she was in any way placed above the other women that had no doubt been in her place before her. The Doge may couch his intentions in compliments and flatteries - vulgar ones more often than words that might really have the power to please her - but Rosaline understood that even if he did consider her a beautiful woman, his pursuit was not based on attraction alone: As so many things men like him did, it was all about power. She wanted his help, and he expected her to give something in return, as personal and intimate as possible - and in doing so, only further remind him that his power was absolute, and enough to provide him with anything he might fancy to want.

The thought alone of bending to the horrid man's will was appalling without even considering the practicalities of it. For one thing, Rosaline was much less experienced in these things than she should be as a married woman, and even if she could get away with coyly adopting that prized feminine meekness and chastity, she had heard enough tales about wedding night sheets to know that there would be proof of her virginity, should things progress that far. But even if he spotted such signs, she doubted the Doge would be interested to investigate what had and had not happened between her husband and her. She would simply have to claim that her menses had arrived early, and hope that he, like most men, would be discouraged from further discussing these mysteries of the female body.

Yes, Rosaline thought and reminded herself of her sister as she got up to get dressed, she could do this.

She could because she must.

***

 

Setting her plan into motion required even less work or finesse than Rosaline had expected. Just like the day before, the Doge bestowed his attention on her gratuitously while ignoring Benvolio, who soon slipped away to talk to other courtiers – a plan he had mentioned to her just after awaking this morning.

“If the Doge will not speak to me, I shall speak to everyone else who will instead – see if I cannot dig up some secrets that might help us win him over in the end.”

Rosaline was uncertain such valuable secrets could be obtained in such a short time as they had, but she nonetheless agreed it was an idea worth pursuing – and it left her plenty of time to speak to the Doge, to gradually show herself more receptive to his attentions, more likely to smile and simper at his distasteful compliments. By the time the Doge repeated yesterday's invitation to visit him in his quarters for dinner, she thought it not too sudden to accept – though the Doge did seem a little surprised by her sudden change of opinion, and she had to think on her feet.

“Yesterday, I declined your invitation in order to be considerate of my husband's feelings. But he has since been so inconsiderate of my own, and so neglectful of me over all his talk of diplomacy, that I am thinking perhaps I should seek diversion and comfort elsewhere.”

A shyly seductive smile, a flutter of eyelashes accompanied the words to complete the fiction of the bored, silly little wife. It was a type of mimicry that was wholly foreign to her, but she had watched Juliet practice such feminine little mannerisms in front of the mirror, and had more recently had to learn how to feign happiness she was far from feeling, and weakness she despised.

It seemed enough to satisfy the Doge in any case, who took her hand to press a disrespectfully long and intimate kiss to it.

“I am sure we can find some way to distract you, if your husband is not man enough to do so.”

One more feigned simpering smile, then the Doge luckily excused himself for his afternoon rest – not without first making some remark about wanting to be well-rested tonight, and winking at her lewdly. As soon as he had left the room, Rosaline let out a relieved sigh, her shoulders sinking from their tensely raised position – only to tense again when someone appeared behind her, leaning in close enough that their breath tickled her ear when they spoke. But as soon as they did, Rosaline relaxed once more: It was only Benvolio.

“Any news? Did you manage to get through to him?”

Rosaline was unsure what to reply to that. She did want to tell Benvolio about her plan, but somehow, she found it hard to find the words to do so – and after a moment, she realised why that was the case: She was afraid of his reaction. Afraid that he would judge her for choosing to go down this particular sinful path – a choice that must seem simple and lazy to a man even when to her, it had been the opposite.

Feeling like a coward, she shook her head. “The usual. Flattery and flirtation.”

Benvolio sighed, but when she turned her head to look at him, she found not the expression of disappointment she had expected but an encouraging smile.

“No matter – we'll figure out some way to sway him. I for one have met several of his courtiers, and have been invited to spar with some of them this afternoon.”

Rosaline knew this should please her, for it meant he was being welcomed into the inner circles of Venetian society, and would perhaps bond with the men over some male pursuit or other. Still, she did not like the potential for violence, or even unlucky accidents, that such an invitation might hold.

“Is that safe?”

“Considering all the weapons will have wooden blades, I'd say I should be in no more danger than you are drinking “caffé” with your friend Helena.” Benvolio's voice was light and teasing – a pleasant contrast to the weight that seemed to be bearing down on her with every fleeting thought of this evening.

She pushed away these thoughts to focus on the nearer future instead.

“Which is exactly what I intend to do. I cannot think of anything else to do, for the Doge has just retired for the afternoon, and frankly, I have not the strength to try and ingratiate myself with any of his favourites.”

Benvolio nodded, encouraging smile still in place. “Of course. You have been working hard enough trying to please the Doge. You should take some time to yourself, chat with Helena and rest. I'll attend to the court intrigue today.”

The offer, well-intentioned and sweet though it was, only served to make her feel more wretched. Here was a man so determined to take the weight of their task off her shoulders, and yet so powerless to do so. Even if Benvolio managed to find an ally among the Doge's peers, the plan he proposed would take far too long to set into motion – and hers might yield results this very evening, so hers she would have to stick to, no matter how revolting.

“Then that is what I will do.” She stepped away, intent to seek out Helena now before her courage could leave her again. There was still much to do, for if she sought out the Doge tonight, she would make sure to make it as difficult as possible for him to refuse her anything. “And even with wooden blades, I would ask that you be careful this afternoon.”

Benvolio bowed mockingly. “As my lady wife commands.”

Given that they were surrounded by people, she repressed the urge to cuff him for his teasing, and only quickly stuck out her tongue before she turned and walked away. She could hear his low chuckle at her antics, and knew that when she looked back, she would find him smiling fondly.

She was not sure what to make of the fact that she knew this.

***

  
Several hours later, Rosaline was freshly bathed and scrubbed and oiled and perfumed, laced tightly into a lavender-coloured gown that was so tight and so low-cut, she feared she might spill out of it at any moment.

When she had first told Helena what she needed, her friend had immediately put two and two together and figured out what she intended to do.

“Are you certain? The Doge is not known to be gentle or considerate. If you have only ever been with your husband, you might be in for an unpleasant surprise.”

She had never even done as much, Rosaline wanted to say, but felt it best not to jeopardise their ruse. “Then I will simply have to endure.” She smiled bitterly. “And I assume I will not be the first woman to do so.”

Helena's answering smile had been melancholy, but she had not tried to further dissuade Rosaline from her plan, nor made any more comparisons between the Doge and her supposed husband, which Rosaline was more than thankful for. This whole situation was hard enough already without bringing thoughts of Benvolio into it, and wondering how he might have treated her had they ever had a wedding night. No, such thoughts would only draw her focus away from the task ahead of her.

Once convinced that she was serious, Helena had provided her with everything she needed and helped her get primped and dressed. As her final touch, she had pinned up Rosaline's hair in a way that was elaborate but still seemed effortless, as if she had merely risen from an afternoon nap and gathered her curls up as lazily as possible in the expectation that they would soon be freed again to allow an admirer to run his hands through them.

Helena finished without further comment on her plans, chatting idly about this and that irrelevant thing instead, and Rosaline let her voice lull her into a sense of calm, thankful to be distracted from envisioning how the evening might play out.

Once Rosaline was entirely transformed into an elegant Venetian woman, Helena wished her good luck and departed, and Rosaline was left sitting at the dressing table and staring at her own reflection, her head full of thoughts but each of them too disconnected and flitting by too quickly to hold on properly. But not for long: Her friend had barely closed the door behind her when Benvolio returned.

He jumped straight into a recapitulation of his afternoon without any preamble, taking only the time to walk over and stand close behind her. They still were not assured that they were not being spied on even in their bedroom, and he leaned in close before he spoke, his arms propped on the back of her chair as he pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“There are definitely some among the Doge's courtiers that are not altogether loyal to him – but they'll not work against him unless they feel they have something to gain from it. Perhaps if I spend a few more days in their company, I can earn their trust and convince them that throwing their weight behind our campaign will bear rewards for them.” Straightening up again, he raised his voice a little, indicating that this was the extent of his afternoon's results. “In any case, the men of Venice are not to be underestimated – though we were only sparring, I got knocked off my feet quite a few times.”

Stepping back from her chair, he stretched out his arms, shoulders and back, rubbing a sore spot on one of them. He really did look like he'd had a vigorous sparring session indeed: his hair was tousled, his once dark breeches covered in fine sand, and his light shirt clung to his chest with sweat.

“How was your afternoon?”

Rosaline got to her feet, feeling like the rest of their conversation would require them to be eye-to-eye even if she had trouble looking into his eyes in the first place.

It was only now that she stood before him that he seemed to even take in her elegant but unusually revealing dress, her elaborately coiffed hair, and his eyes widened.

"You look very... elegant. Did we receive a particularly important invitation tonight?”

“ _We_ did not. _I_ did.”

Stomach fluttering with uncertainty, Rosaline had to remind herself why it was important that she tell him honestly of her plans: because they were surely doomed if they were not completely forthcoming with each other about their endeavours here. But knowing this did not make it any easier, and Rosaline's tongue felt heavy, her throat dry.

"The Doge has asked me to keep him company at dinner tonight. Alone."

It took a moment, but then Benvolio's face darkened as he understood the implications of the Doge's request, and Rosaline's careful preparations.

"You cannot be considering…" he seemed at a momentary loss for words, "…joining him?"

Considering the fact that he had once taken her to a brothel, no matter how reluctantly, this sudden bashfulness was almost amusing - if Rosaline had been in any way able to appreciate the humour.

"I will do whatever it takes to secure his aid."

"But surely not _this_!"

"Why not? It would not have been the first time my virtue has been used as a bargaining chip. At least this time I'll be the one doing the bargaining."

"But…"

"You forget that you are not in truth my husband. You cannot stop me."

"I know that." His voice was harsh, frustration written all over his face.

"Then please, let me do as I must." _And please do not make it any more difficult,_ she added in her mind as she began walking to the door, trying not to think of how very much she would love to let him keep acting as if he really _was_ her husband, or in any way able to protect her. But he was not - she would have to see this through on her own.

As if he had heard her silent plea, Benvolio ceased his protest and let her pass. But the worried look on his face remained, and when she was almost by the door, he reached out to take her hand – softly, lightly enough to suggest he was not trying to hold her back but not ready to let her go either.

"Rosaline, I....” his voice was strained, and for a moment, Rosaline wanted to hear what he would say even if she had a feeling that whatever it was would not make her next steps any easier. But then his voice faltered, and after a quick squeeze, he let go of her hand. “Promise to be careful at least. I do not trust the man."

"Neither do I. But we hardly have that many options left, do we?"

With that remark - sharp so as not to reveal the helplessness lurking just behind - she swept past him and out into the hallway, stopping only for a moment outside the door to take a deep breath before she set off towards the Doge's quarters.

Time to see this game through to the end.

***

 

Up close, the Doge was even more repulsive.

It wasn't so much that he was a physically repulsive person - he may not be a handsome man, but he was far from decrepit, and he seemed to bathe regularly. No, what made dread curl inside her was the way he looked at her, cold and proprietary, as if to say "You are an object, for me to do with as I please". That look, and her visceral reaction to it, made Rosaline doubt that she was as ready to go through with this as she had believed to be - but then, what else was there to do?

Still, she tried once more to move the Doge with her words alone, though it seemed clear conversation was not expected of her - dinner had not even been presented in his dining room but brought straight through to the bedroom, where they were now seated side by side on a chaise longue, a plate of assorted delicacies on a small table before them.

The sight alone nearly made her stomach turn.

"Have you come to a decision on whether or not Venice will aid us in fending off Count Paris and his army?", she asked conversationally, trying to keep her voice level and her hands steady - though she doubted she could have lifted her glass without spilling wine all over herself.

"Oh, not yet - but I have a feeling I'll have made that decision by the end of the night. Perhaps," he leaned closer, and she could smell the wine on his breath, "perhaps you ought to give me a good reason to help you."

Rosaline knew what he was hinting at, of course, knew that the time for talking was past - and yet she persisted, increasingly desperate.

"Because Verona has helped you fend off a traitor in your midst. Because you ha've signed an agreement, and that agreement included the promise of military aid."

"That I have. But what of what you have offered me when you sought me out without your husband? I did not get that offer in writing - perhaps I ought to receive a first payment before I agree to anything."

He took hold of the strings holding Rosaline's cape together and pulled her close by the thin cords as if by a leash, a gesture that required very little force to be thoroughly humiliating. But Rosaline thought of her sister, locked up somewhere in Mantua, and swallowed her revulsion as he ran one finger down the side of her face. 

"You really are exquisite."

"You flatter me..." Rosaline responded, aiming for a coquettish tone that came out sounding rather pathetic.

"Oh, now don't pretend like you do not enjoy it!" He kept tugging on the strings of her cape, bringing her so close she could smell the wine on his face. "But even more, I believe you enjoy taking me for a fool." His hand tightened on the strings just as all flirtation dropped from his voice, and the edge of her cape began to dig uncomfortably into the back of her neck. "You women of Verona think you can come here and make demands of me without paying your dues? Oh, I think not. Your Princess tricked me into signing that accursed treaty, but you will not get away so easily. If you want Venice to help your pathetic little city, you had better be prepared to give me exactly what I want."

He leaned back to let his eyes rove over her.

"Perhaps not _exactly_ \- you're not entirely untouched, after all. But I imagine that disappointment will be more than soothed by the prospect of visiting Verona one day, after my army has freed it, to collect on the gratitude of your people - and to let them all know just what _exactly_ House Capulet has done to save it. We can only hope your husband's house will not start another war again when they hear of how you've given the horns to their heir."

With dread pooling in her stomach, Rosaline realised that the extent of the Doge's cruelty went further than she had expected: He sought not merely to debase her for his own momentary pleasure - he intended to publicly humiliate her _and_ Benvolio, and all of Verona along with them.

One of the Doge's hands gripped her waist to pull her close.

"But of course, that must not mean you may not enjoy yourself now."

And somehow, that little remark was what pushed her over the edge. How could it be that men like the Doge were allowed to hold such power over other people's lives as to see them helplessly bent to their every whim - and then to expect their victims to be grateful, or to derive pleasure from such callous treatment?

Before Rosaline knew what she was doing, the Doge's bedchamber was echoing with the sound of the slap she delivered to his cheek, her palm burning with it - and deep in her gut, she felt righteous rage at this horrible man, and the state of the world, and horrible men in general.

She leaned forward, thrusting her face into his vision and watching his eyes widen in surprise.

"I doubt any woman has ever _enjoyed_ herself with you."

It was perhaps an even worse thing to do than slapping him - but for a moment, she thought she saw her words take root within her opponent's mind, and the tiniest flicker of self-doubt manifested itself in his eyes - and Rosaline hoped that, no matter what the Doge would do to her next, he would forever remember her words.

Then that brief, irrational feeling of triumph abated, the blood that seemed to have gone entirely into feeding the ball of rage in her stomach began to circulate once more, and Rosaline realised what she had done - and in that same moment, the Doge seemed to realise it too. His face darkened, his grip on her waist tightened until it became almost painful, and Rosaline bit down on the fear crawling up the back of her throat. If she would not give in to his demands, then neither would she let his anger cow her, or show fear at whatever he chose to do to her next. And what that would be was anyone's guess, for the Doge was still silently staring at her...

...and into that heavy silence cut a voice that made Rosaline almost sigh with relief.

"Enjoying yourself?" Rosaline turned her head to see Benvolio, lazily perched against the doorframe.

The Doge dragged himself out of his stupor, perhaps driven by the need to pretend that everything was still firmly under his control.

"Oh dear," he remarked with gratingly false concern, "you're not getting proprietary all of a sudden I hope? I thought you were above such petty jealousies." He glanced smugly over at Rosaline. "At least, your wife is."

If he had hoped to cheer himself up by watching some display of jealousy, the Doge was disappointed: Benvolio remained eerily cheerful.

"Oh, I have no intention of standing in my wife's way. I just passed by on my way from the tavern." 

Still clearly rattled, the Doge seemed to have trouble coming up with a witty reply to this non-sequitur. But Benvolio needed no encouragement to continue. 

"Not the most refined of places, perhaps, but lively enough, and well-frequented - especially by your soldiers. Or should I say former soldiers?"

He came closer, calmly ambling towards them and stopping only to take Rosaline's glass of wine from where it sat on the little table before her.

"For it turns out that many of them have been discharged, and quite abruptly too. In fact," he took a long swig of wine, sighing in apparent enjoyment, "it seems you have decimated your forces considerably."

Rosaline could only stare at him, wondering what on earth he was playing at. Was he simply stalling in the hope that they'd be saved by some form of divine intervention? Did he intend to _annoy_ the Doge into helping them? Or did he have some form of plan?

She fervently hoped that he did, and decided once more to trust him.

"So I've asked myself: What would drive the ruler of the richest city from the Alps to the Adriatic Sea to do such a thing?"

Some sleek manoeuvring brought him around the table to their chaise longue, where he squeezed himself in between Rosaline and the Doge. Forced to move aside or have Benvolio draped across his lap, the man looked more irate by the second.

"And then I thought, well, maybe all those lavish entertainments and famous courtesans have left a dent in the court's finances? In which case, of course, the smart thing would be to free up some funds, let go of some unnecessary burdens." His voice, which had started out a lazy, amused drawl, turned more and more serious. "Except they're not so unnecessary after all, are they? Not with Paris' army gearing up to devour every city still standing between you and Mantua. Now tell me, your Highness: Once Verona falls, how long do you think Padua will hold out?"

He leaned forward to pluck a grape from a bowl of fruit and pop it into his mouth, grinning triumphantly.

"My guess is: Not very long."

Apparently satisfied with his performance, he leaned back, draping an arm around Rosaline's shoulder as he geared up towards his conclusion.

"So, wise though she may be, I doubt my wife has anything to say that would be more convincing than this: If you do not help us now, there will be nothing standing between you and Paris' army once he sets his sights on your glorious city. And trust me: He will."

For a moment, the Doge sat completely still, eyes bulging in his head, face turning a purplish red, as if he was quite literally about to burst - and then his anger, already provoked by Rosaline, burst forth as he jumped to his feet and began yelling.

“You _dare_....! You have the _gall_...!" He seemed to have trouble formulating his reproach, and Rosaline would have found it amusing if she had not been terrified for Benvolio in this moment, who was now the sole target of the Doge's ire. "I invite you into my palace, as my guest, and you go around spying on my soldiers for information on the state of my army? I should have you executed for treason.”

Rosaline wondered if this was some kind of unending nightmare where she stumbled out of the frying pan of the Doge's attentions into the fire of his rage, and would soon have to suffer through watching Benvolio climb a scaffold again. But Benvolio himself remained calm, eyes fixed cold and unwavering on the ruler of Venice.

“You could do that, of course, and none could stop you. But it would not change anything about the fact that Mantua is a threat, and your army will soon no longer be able to deal with it. But now, with our help, you can put an end to Count Paris' schemes once and for all, and make sure Venice remains at leisure to concern itself with nothing but pleasure and voluptuousness for a long time.”

"Get _out_! Out of my sight!" And when they did not immediately remove themselves, he took a deep breath and yelled from the top of his lungs: “ _Guards_!”

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually managed to finish another chapter, yay! (I'm obsessed with this fic at the moment.) This is a weird one, all dialogue and little to no plot, and if it was a tv show, I think it would be a bottle episode. Still, yay!  
> Just a warning though: this gets a little sad, I think. No Doge yuckiness though.

The moment the Doge's guards burst through the doors, Rosaline was sure their lives were forfeit. They had spent the evening humiliating and pressuring the Doge, and would surely have to bear the consequences now.

But if he had that same fear, Benvolio showed no sign of it. Getting to his feet, moved slowly away from the Doge, hands raised beside his head to indicate he meant no threat.

“There will be no need for guards. We will leave of our own volition, and remain in our chambers until you have made your decision. You have my word that we mean you no harm.”

Having reached him by now, the guards grabbed one of his arms each, ready to drag him out and throw him in the dungeon adjacent to the palace at one word of their ruler – and Benvolio had nothing but his words to defend himself.

"I urge you to consider my warning, and see me as an ally rather than a threat. The real threat to you and your city are Count Paris and his ambitions, and he is who you should consider your enemy. I know your men do, for they took it very seriously when I told them, and expressed their eagerness to ally with Verona against his forces."

The words had the ring of a threat, and were indeed a warning, Rosaline understood: The word was already out. Killing or imprisoning Benvolio would be useless.

And the Doge seemed to agree.

“Remove him from my presence,” he barked at his guards – but there was no mention of the dungeons, or worse, of immediate violence. “Bring them back to their room and make sure they stay. I will want to speak to them again.”

Returning to their room was the best possible outcome to this situation, Rosaline was sure, and so she followed along quietly and without protest, simply glad to be away from the Doge for the moment at least. One of the guards let go of Benvolio to take a hold of her arm, but though his grip was painfully firm, she did not protest – she had thinking to do, and no time to squabble with an armed guard who would overpower her anyway.

Soon, they had reached their room and were shoved through the door, Benvolio so roughly that he stumbled and fell, catching himself on his hands and knees. Then the door was slammed shut and locked behind them - they were prisoners.

Rosaline sank to her knees herself, reaching out to make sure Benvolio was unharmed at the same time as he looked at her to ask:

"Are you well? Did he harm you?"

"He did not." Rosaline shook her head, still dazed from the events of the evening. "He had no chance to do much of anything before I slapped him." Nausea rolled over her as the reality of it sank in, and she had to steady herself on Benvolio's outstretched arms. "I _slapped_ the Doge."

"I saw." Benvolio confirmed, putting the seal of veracity on what she had just begun to convince herself she had only imagined. But when she expected him to berate her for it, Benvolio grinned. "And quite a slap it was."

A part of her felt relieved that he took no offense at her reckless actions, and seemed indeed to be pleased by it. But another part, the part that was simply trying to keep them both alive, felt ready to slap Benvolio as well in this moment.

“What were you thinking bursting in and angering him like this?”

“I was thinking I had found something that might help us sway him without you having to sacrifice yourself.”

“And how is it going to help us that he is now burning with rage at both of us?”

“Because though he may be spoiled and childish, he's not stupid. When it comes to it, he will do the best thing for Venice. And as I have made very clear, the best thing is to side with Verona.”

“But how can you know he understood you as you intended? He might not want to see the truth for all his ire.”

“If that was the case, I would be in the dungeon right now. He is at the very least considering my words, and I have a feeling we will find out soon enough if he agrees.”

“And what if he does not?”, she asked, but she already knew the answer, and moved straight on to providing a solution to the problem. “We have to leave.”

" _Leave_? We are locked in, with armed guards at the door."

"Then we climb out the window. In any case, we must leave Venice before the Doge decides you are a threat after all."

"If he has half a brain, he'll consult with any of his officers and be told that he has more to gain by keeping me alive and using anything I can tell him about Verona's surroundings to his advantage. No spy is as helpful as a native citizen of the area one intends to go to war in."

"The Doge might still decide the satisfaction of seeing you killed is more important than that advantage. We are not taking such a risk."

She knew she was on the verge of hysteria, frantically scrambling to her feet and rushing to the window to look for anything that might help them climb out.

"Rosaline..."

"Do _not_ try to stop me. We are leaving."

Getting to his feet himself, Benvolio took ahold of her arms to keep her in place.

"We need the Doge's help."

"We shall simply have to find some other way to save Verona then. We need not wait around for the Doge to make up his mind on whether or not he intends to kill you."

"And you'd risk the lives of far too many at Verona just in case he does intend to do so?"

He said it jokingly, a smile on his lips as if it was the most ridiculous idea.

But Rosaline was in no mood for jests.

"Yes."

The smile dripped off Benvolio's face slowly as he realised she was serious, replaced by awe and confusion and something she could not quite pinpoint.

"Your life for peace in Verona - that was the price last time, was it not? Perhaps it was time someone else paid up."

For a moment, it seemed like Benvolio might be swayed, and Rosaline, clutching his wrists and feeling his pulse beating under her fingertips, was convinced that her hasty decision was the right one. Him or Verona: She had not been able to influence that choice the last time it had been made, but she could very well do so now. They could still make it to Mantua somehow, could still save her sister, and as for everything after, everyone they left behind... well, none of them mattered as much as he did.

But then Benvolio smiled, melancholy but perhaps truer than she had ever seen him smile before. And before she knew what was happening, he curled his hand around her neck, bent close, and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.

When he drew back, he looked more determined than ever.

"I will not have you make that decision in my favor, and have it weigh on your conscience for the rest of your life. The choice is out of our hands, for I am determined to stay and await the Doge's decision. But I myself do not fear it: I have told him that the secret's out, and the thought of what a victory for Mantua might mean for Venice is planted in people's heads. He has nothing more to gain from having me executed, and much more from honouring our alliance. And if he still decides to make an example of me...”

He did not end the sentence, left it hanging on that terrifying thought, and not for the first time Rosaline felt some helpless, clumsy beast rampage around inside her chest at the thought. Then something else in his words caught her attention.

" _You_ are determined to stay then? And what of me?"

"We can still sneak you out by the window, just like you suggested; make sure you are far away from Venice just in case..."

Rosaline did not let him finish laying out his plan.

"Don't be ridiculous. I've not left you behind on the way here, and I'll not leave you behind now."

Shaking off his arms, she retreated behind the dressing screen, both to indicate that the subject was closed and because she suddenly felt like she would go mad if she could not get out of her restricting dress.

While she tugged and fumbled at the knot holding together the laces, Benvolio took the opportunity to try and have the last word.

"You are surely the most impossibly headstrong woman I have ever met."

Rosaline did not contradict him. If it was headstrong of her to insist on at least trying to keep alive a man so intent on sacrificing himself, then so be it – _somebody_ had to do it.

Her fingers were still struggling with the knot, too tight to loosen it blindly and behind her back, and she realised irritatedly that she would need help.

Asking Benvolio for help, though preferable to calling for a maid, was far from easy, for she was still angry at his determination to bear the fallout from their tumultuous evening. It was clear that Benvolio noticed her inner turmoil, for he stepped closer hesitantly, and then immediately began to deliver what sounded a lot like a speech he had rehearsed in his head beforehand.

"Now, as for interrupting you and the Doge: I know you said to let you do as you must." Apparently, he thought that her anger was due to his earlier interruption, even though it had been both timely and very welcome. "And I was going to respect that – hence my visit to the tavern. But surely you will agree that this solution was better? And I don't care what you say, Capulet, but…"

"Thank you," she cut him off, though it seemed to take a moment for him to register the words, his hands stilling abruptly where she had felt them fiddling with her laces a moment ago.

"What?"

"Thank you. For making it so that I did not have to…" she could not even describe the act, which made her even more doubtful that she could have found the strength to go through with it. "For finding another way."

Having expected a reprimand, the praise seemed to catch him unaware.

"Well, it didn't take much - a few flasks of wine to loosen some tongues, is all."

"And for you to put together the pieces, and to return to the palace instead of abandoning me to my fate as I asked you to."

"I will never do that, Rosaline. I promised I'd keep you safe, did I not? And I shall do what I can to keep that promise."

There was such fierce conviction in his voice that Rosaline felt overwhelmed for a moment, untethered – just like she had in that prison cell, when she'd seen the depth of his commitment to seeing her safe and happy.

Then he continued, and the world went upright again.

"Even if it means protecting you from your own heinous plans."

"You are incorrigibly rude, Montague."

The knot finally gave, and Benvolio let go of her laces so she could retreat behind the dressing screen once more and take off her dress. But before she disappeared behind the wooden partition, Rosaline saw the flash of his grin - and despite her many fears and uncertainties about their current situation, the sight prompted some flash of relief within her too: from one tribulation at least, she had been delivered.

"Roguishly charming, is what I think you mean to say."

She allowed herself a short laugh, teasing but not derisive, as she slipped off the heavy dress and pulled on a light dressing gown Helena had lent her as well.

Slipping out behind the screen, she saw that Benvolio had sat down on the bench beneath the window, elbow propped up on the windowsill as he looked out across the lagoon. She sat down next to him, but instead of mirroring his posture and looking out, she pulled her feet up on the bench to sit facing him.

“What do we do now?”

“Now we wait for the Doge to make his decision.”

“More waiting,” Rosaline sighed.

“Just a little longer.”

He reached out to squeeze her hands where she had crossed them over her raised knees - an unassuming but nonetheless welcome gesture.

“And once he has mustered his troops and prepared a strategy, we make for Mantua and free your sister.” A pause, another squeeze of her hands before he drew back. “I promise.”

She was not sure it was a promise he should be making, let alone one he could keep, but she appreciated the sentiment behind it, felt her troubled mind once again soothed by his offer of comfort even though they were condemned to wait as others pulled the strings.

Turning his head back to the window, he let his eyes roam over the sprawling city below, over the canals and the lagoon where boats were still tirelessly crossing back and forth and making the dark water glitter with reflections of their little lanterns. It was a pretty sight, but Rosaline's eyes kept darting to her companion, and her thoughts were equally concerned with him.  

Throughout the events of the evening, Benvolio had remained remarkably calm even when his life had been threatened and the guards had manhandled him. But she could not but wonder how much strength it cost him to maintain that outward calm, and how much the persistent danger and renewed threat of execution wore on him. The thought filled her with that same sense of injustice that had gripped her so often when she had recently considered his fate, especially the fact that so many people seemed intent to exploit him for their own ends, and so few ready to defend him as he deserved.

But ere these musings could once again descend into quiet raging against the world and its many injustices, Benvolio broke the silence, and brought her ruminations to an abrupt halt.

“What is she like?”

“Who?”

“Your sister. I know you are constantly thinking of her. Perhaps telling me a little about her will be better than simply spending all your time worrying.”

It was perhaps not the worst idea, even though it was based on a flawed assumption as to who exactly she had been thinking about in this particular moment.

"She is…" for a moment, Rosaline was unsure if speaking of her sister might not be prodding the wound torn by her abduction - but then again, maybe Benvolio was right: she was already thinking of her sister all the time, she might as well steer these thoughts in a more pleasant direction. At the very least, dire as her sister's situation might be, she could still speak of her in the present tense. "She is the sweetest, kindest, gentlest soul you can imagine."

Benvolio smiled, nodding along to signal to her to keep talking. But though his intention had been for her to speak only of the good things, opening the subject prompted thoughts to awaken that had been festering inside her ever since she had first witnessed how deeply Livia had fallen under Paris' spell.

"And I think that if anything, I am to blame for her current situation, for I refused to listen to her, and to take her wishes to heart. She never wanted what I wanted, never wanted to get away from Verona and have her freedom. All she wanted was a family and a good husband and some kind of comfortable life, and I acted like those were just silly daydreams." She took a deep breath, feeling her throat tighten painfully but pushing through. Now that this door had been opened, it was difficult to close it again. "Mind you, as penniless Capulet servants, finding a good husband for her would have been a challenge. But if our marriage had come through and I become a lady of House Montague, I could have helped her. She would have had no trouble finding someone, especially if you could have been convinced to pay her bride price. And yet, all I could think of were my own reservations against our betrothal, my own feelings. Is it any wonder then that she stopped confiding in me, and turned to the first person she could find who seemed like he could make her wish come true?" She paused, let out a bitter little laugh. "In a way, she only did what I wished to do."

"Run off with a man?", Benvolio suggested wryly, and Rosaline felt the corners of her mouth twitch despite her agitation.

"Make her own future. Her own decisions."

"And she made those decisions knowing none of what we know of Paris' true nature."

"Exactly! If I had paid better attention to her, if we had spoken frequently and honestly as we used to, I would have told her all about what was going on, and she never would have fallen into his trap."

"How could you have told her? You said Paris threatened you sister's life if you revealed his plans to anyone."

"It hardly made much of a difference though, did it? She still fell into his hands, regardless of what I did."

"She is still alive. Therein lies the difference." He reached out again, gasping her hands the same way he had before but settling there indefinitely this time to brush his thumb over her knuckles; a rhythmic, soothing motion.

"You too made your decisions based on what you knew - and at the time, clearly everything suggested that she was in no immediate danger as long as you kept the Count's secret. Even you cannot foretell the future."

"No. But I could have read the signs of the present correctly, and known that secrets in the family are never a good thing, and neither is neglecting lovestruck young people. But I…" she had been too busy worrying about Benvolio, and the Count had used her distractedness to whisk away her sister.

"You were under threat yourself, and were trying to save me at the same time as well."

"Which I still do not regret," Rosaline interjected, just before he could get any other ideas. "But ever since our parents died, it was my duty to look out for Livia - our aunt and uncle certainly never cared to provide us with anything but the most basic necessities, and the protection granted to any member of their household."

"You cannot expect yourself to watch over her at all times. Besides, you are not children anymore - your sister is her own woman, and she made her own decisions, ill-informed though they were. You can do everything in your power now to save her from the consequences of those decisions, but you cannot make them undone, and neither could you have prevented them."

"Is that what you tell yourself about Romeo?"

He reared back as if she had slapped him, and Rosaline felt horrified.

"I'm sorry! I did not mean to imply…", before it could slip away, she took hold of his hand, trapping it in between hers. "I only thought… I not only feel like I have failed Livia but Juliet as well. And if you and your cousin were as close as we were…"

"He was like a brother to me", Benvolio spat, anger still hard on his face.

But she held tight to his hand, willing him to understand that she meant no offense. All she was seeking was some form of reassurance from the only person who knew exactly how she felt - and Benvolio provided it.

"I was the one watching out for him all his life, trying to keep him out of trouble when he and Mercutio were developing too much of a taste for fighting. And the one time it counted, I could not sway him. So I know what you mean, and I have no idea what to tell myself about his death except for one thing: it should have been me."

She had seen him display this attitude before - and just like before, it made her blood boil. But before she could point out how hypocritical it was of him to advise her not to blame herself when he was doing the same thing himself, Benvolio continued speaking. His head was turned towards the window again, avoiding her gaze, and he was speaking so softly Rosaline had to lean forward to understand.

"But once the first shock of grief was over, I have sometimes found myself thinking: I am glad to be alive." When he looked at her again, his eyes were shimmering with tears. "I would still give anything to get him back, including my own life. But I cannot help but feel relieved that no one has collected that particular payment yet." He drew a shuddering breath. "Is that terrible?"

"No," Rosaline replied, shaking her head so vigorously some of her artfully piled-up curls came undone. "I believe it is human. Most of us cling to life with whatever strength we have. Surely no one could blame you for following that instinct. And if your cousin loved you half as much as you loved him, I know he would not. He would want you to go on somehow. They both would."

For a moment, Rosaline felt horrible for even thinking such frivolous thoughts, attaching opinions to people who could no longer raise their own voice to protest. But the more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that she was right: Benvolio and her may both have contributed to the tragedy, by failing to reason their cousins out of their marriage, by taking bad counsil and going along with the Friar's dangerous plan, and for this, they would both continue to blame themselves for a long time. But surely they could not be the only ones found guilty of their cousins' deaths - after all, youthful injudiciousness had played as much of a part in it, as had their families' cruel insistence on keeping them apart, and her uncle's immovable wish to see Juliet married to Count Paris so quickly.

"As much as we may have failed them in some ways, I do think we should be absolved for those sins at some point. And then we have to find a way to keep on living without them. Perhaps even..." _Perhaps even to be happy again one day_ , Rosaline thought, but the thought seemed too big and impossible a wish at the moment.

Benvolio nodded slowly, which filled Rosaline with tentative relief - she could not bear to hear him claim one more time that it should be him lying dead in the Montague crypt instead of his cousin.  
  
"I do think they would want us to, Romeo at least - he never could hold a grudge, and I find it hard to imagine him as a vengeful ghost." 

Macabre though it was, Rosaline found herself reluctantly amused by the image, before she wondered if the same thing could be said about her cousin. Juliet had loved her as much as Rosaline had loved the younger girl, and would surely not like to see her bent with grief for the rest of her life. Would, in fact, be much more likely to be amused by the many rash decisions Rosaline had made recently, after preaching patience and prudence to her impulsive younger cousin so often. Imagining it, Rosaline could hear Juliet's voice so clearly in her head that it made her smile. 

"Juliet would. And she would be positively gleeful to see me with a husband, even a fake one. Not to mention, she would draw endless amusement from the fact that I ran off with a man, after advising her against just such impulsive decisions." 

Benvolio chuckled. "Romeo and Mercutio would have a good laugh about our current situation too. And then tease me mercilessly." 

"Then that is how we should remember them, is it not? As happy, carefree, beautiful creatures - and spoiled little brats sometimes."

"That might be the most accurate way to put it, yes." He smiled wistfully. "Do you think they would have made each other happy?"

Rosaline considered it. "I only saw them together once, at their wedding, and they seemed very much in love. As for lasting happiness... I do not know how well they suited each other. But I believe Juliet could have made anyone happy, sweet and sunny as she was." She smiled as the memory of her cousin came alive before her inner eye. "Headstrong too, on occasion -"

"A Capulet family trait, I believe," Benvolio interjected teasingly, which Rosaline chose to ignore with a haughty expression.

"And oh, she was spoiled - but she never considered herself above me and my sister, even though her mother worked tirelessly to make her believe just that." She lingered on the memory for another moment, remembering her cousin's bright laugh, her face glowing in the candlelight on the evening of her wedding. "Yes, I believe she would have made him happy."

Relief flickered across Benvolio's face and he relaxed, sitting a little less rigidly and drawing one leg up on the bench to make himself more comfortable. It seemed that after the initial shock of hearing his cousin's name, he was now getting accustomed to speaking of him - and she wondered, suddenly, if he had done so at all since Romeo's death, for surely his uncle would be less than perceptive to speak of his son. All the more important to do so now, Rosaline decided.

"And what of your cousin? What kind of man was he?"

Barely a man, really, just like Juliet had been much too young for her fate. But she did not voice the thought out loud - she wanted Benvolio to think of his cousin's life, not his death.

He followed her prodding and gave her some insight into the man her cousin had died for. The two sounded strikingly similar: both romantics, with their heads in the clouds sometimes. Romeo had been sweet as well, Benvolio claimed, though sometimes rash and looking for trouble.

"I've broken up my fair share of fights he got into with members of your house," Benvolio commented wryly, and she felt bad for accusing him of being just like all the other members of their houses who inflicted constant death and grief upon those who cared about them. But she had no chance to say so, for Benvolio quickly moved on to other, happier tales, and she was glad of it: if they were going to remember their cousins, it would only be right to consider them as individuals, and not just members of their houses - just like they would have wanted.

Now that they had once got themselves to speak of their unlucky cousins, one fond memory followed the next, each of them providing tales of childhood adventures and youthful fancies. From memories of their cousins, it was but a short trip to memories of other loved ones – their parents, Rosaline's nurse, Mercutio – and even, eventually, memories of what Verona used to be, before their families in their feuding dragged the city into neverending war: A sanctuary, a treasure trove, a land of adventures for them to experience whenever they slipped out of their parents' and guardians' grip.

A home.

And perhaps God willing that was what it would become again some day, Rosaline thought to herself, and then returned her attention to a rather raucous story that involved Romeo, a haughty tutor, and a very stubborn mule.

Outside their bedroom-turned-prison, the moon made its way across the sky, the lanterns on the water got few and far between, and even the palace turned quiet as night marched on. But perched on their bench by the window, Rosaline and Benvolio talked on, weaving a little pocket of happiness that kept the dangers awaiting them at bay for the moment.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a new chapter, yay! I've had to rewatch parts of Episode 6, which I hate because it's all Paris being horrible to Rosaline and Benvolio, just to get some of the details right. On the plus side, it has both of them being just ridiculously protective of each other, which is nice.

After a brief but surprisingly restful slumber, Benvolio awoke to the sound of someone banging, roughly and insistently, on the chamber door and informing him that the Doge wished to see him. He shot upright in bed, heart racing and stomach clenching with fear. This was it then: the Doge had made up his mind on what to do with him. Soon, he might hear that his and Rosaline's efforts had borne fruit and brought Venice into the fold as Verona's saviour - or he might be found guilty of treason, and be dead before sunset.

The thought filled him once more with that overwhelming, stupefying fear he was coming to hate by now. Benvolio had never fancied himself hero material, but he had not thought he was a coward either - and yet, the thought of climbing another scaffold or being thrown into another dungeon made him freeze with terror.

Luckily, Rosaline was stirring beside him, and once woken, she quickly took control of the situation: telling the guards outside that they would be with them immediately, instructing Benvolio to get dressed, and slipping on a dress of her own. An embellished, veiled cap saved her the effort of taming her sleep-tousled hair, which Benvolio would have teased her about if time had permitted it, for he found the garment and its task of hiding that glorious hair to be deeply offensive. But another, more impatient round of knocks told him there was no time for that - the Doge was waiting, as the guard outside repeated brusquely.

Stepping closer, Rosaline gave his hand a quick squeeze before slinging her arm through his.

"Ready?"

Benvolio nodded, though he was decidedly not prepared for whatever awaited them. But if Rosaline, who had as much of the Doge's ire to fear as he did (if not more, seeing how she had insulted him much more intimately), could keep her head up and her back straight, then so could he.

The door opened, and they were harshly instructed to follow the two guards standing before it. Or rather: Benvolio was - when Rosaline attempted to step through the door with him, one of the men blocked their path.

"He only wishes to speak to you, Signor Montague, and not your wife."

The fact that this was not even addressed to Rosaline directly added additional offense to being excluded like this, Benvolio was sure.

"Trust me," Rosaline declared, sidestepping the guard and beginning to walk in the direction indicated by the guards, "he'll want to speak to me as well."

So authoritative was her tone, so decided her movements towards the Doge's chambers, that neither of the guards protested.

It soon became clear however that the guards' dismissive treatment of Rosaline was based on orders from the Doge, for the man himself acted in much the same manner: As soon as Rosaline had entered the study they had been led to, he tried to send her away again.

"We've no need of the woman," the Doge said, barely looking at Rosaline as he heaped this further humiliation upon her. Apparently, the petulant man had decided that the best way to punish Rosaline for eluding his efforts at seduction was by treating her with utter contempt and disregard - though Benvolio was sure she hardly considered it much of a punishment to be free of his constant leers and questionable compliments. Nonetheless, he knew she must be bristling at the dismissal of her person as someone worth speaking to - but before Rosaline could protest, the older man sitting beside the Doge spoke up.

"My liege, I would quite like to speak to the lady myself. I've found that, when a man has both a wife and a daring idea, more often than not the two are connected."

Benvolio stifled a grin, thinking that whoever he was, the man was wiser by far than his liege. A man to watch out for, yes - but perhaps a valuable ally as well. And he was of course correct: Not only had Rosaline's determination made him eager to show the same strength, but the very idea of looking into the state of the Doge's military had been caused by an innocent remark she had made when they had first set foot into Venice, about how remarkable it was that there were so few guards to be seen.

"Very well, speak to the woman. Though I doubt you'll get more than lies and frivolities out of her."

Out of the corner of his eye, Benvolio saw Rosaline clench her jaw, as if it took physical effort for her not to speak up and set the Doge straight - which it probably did.

Refreshingly, the General showed none of the Doge's contempt as he finally addressed Rosaline directly.

"Mylady, I have been told that you are the royal family's chosen ambassador. I take it that means you are privy to the details of the situation?"

Rosaline nodded, her expression gradually turning less mistrustful as she became more certain that the General was indeed speaking to her as an equal.

"I am, of all people, the one the Count chose to divulge his plans to, and thus perhaps the person with the most insight into his character."

"And what did you promise him to glean these insights?" The Doge's tone made it quite clear what he was implying, and Rosaline's eyes flashed in anger. Her reply, however, was perfectly polite, If a little terse.

"The Count showed his character with no prompting from me - and then he threatened to kill me, my husband, and the Prince of Verona if I spoke a word of his scheme. From our encounter, I have got the impression of a man determined to not only add to Mantua's strength and influence, but to subordinate everything he sets his mind to. A man who wants absolute power, and will do anything to achieve it."

The older man - about the same age as his uncle, Benvolio would wager, and with a very similar bearing that spoke of importance and authority - listened intently, letting Rosaline's report sink in for a moment before he nodded lightly.

"Thank you, my lady. 'tis good to know what kind of man we are up against. Of course," his eyes, lively brown in a severe face, wandered on to settle on Benvolio, "I also wish to know the character of my ally before I tell my men to ride out for him."

Benvolio inclined his head in acknowledgement, unsure if he was supposed to reply to this statement or to await further questions. But the man, apparently less inclined to tricks and games of the mind than his ruler, immediately explained himself.

“I have heard of you, Signor Montague – how you've tricked my men into spilling our city's military secrets with no more help than a bit of wine. So I told my Lord: This is a dangerous man, and I want him within my sight at all times during this campaign.”

This was a problem, for Benvolio had no intention of causing further delay to their goal of rescuing Rosaline's sister. But before he could say so, Rosaline spoke up.

"So there _will_ be a campaign? Venice will intervene?"

"I have weighed the options," the Doge said self-importantly, "and have come to the conclusion that it will be in Venice's best interest."

He made it sound like he had come to this conclusion all by himself, without needing to have it carefully laid out for him. But Benvolio did not point this out - if the man needed to feel like helping Verona was all his own idea, then so be it.

"I assume, of course, that Verona will compensate my men for their efforts."

"I am sure that can be arranged. House Montague is dedicated to seeing Verona delivered from peril."

"And so is House Capulet, as we well know." The Doge leered at Rosaline, apparently forgetting how his evening with Rosaline had ended.

"Well then," the stranger ignored the interception, "it seems we are decided: Verona will be defended." He extended a hand, and Benvolio shook it without hesitation.

"And Venice and Verona both will be better off for it," he replied.

The man nodded, and to Rosaline's visible pleasure, shook her hand as well, displaying the kind of respect that had been denied to her throughout their stay. Yes, Benvolio decided, he did like the man, though he still did not know who he was.

But that could be remedied.

"May I ask who I will be fighting alongside then?"

"Of course, we've not been introduced yet. I am General Montalbano, leader of the Doge's forces."

His introduction was friendly, his impressive title presented in a refreshingly humble and unassuming manner. The man's authority stemmed from experience and success, not from title, name or riches - which made it all the more satisfying to be treated by the General with respect and courtesy, as legitimate allies, and not inconsequential playthings.

Having once learned the man's name, Benvolio had wanted to ask more questions: how many men would he send to Verona? When would they leave? Had he decided on a strategy for his attack yet?

But before he could ask any of them, the Doge addressed him and Rosaline once more, making an impatient shooing motion towards the door.

"You may leave now." And, when they failed to immediately heed his dismissal: "My men and I have planning to do. You can wait in the antechamber until we have further need of you again."

It was not an offer.

Benvolio bowed curtly and held out his arm for Rosaline to take, but she did not - she remained in place to address General Montalbano.

"You mean it then? You'll ride out, and help us save our home?"

Benvolio had never heard her plead like this, so breathless with hope, so seemingly helpless as she waited for assurance. He wondered how much of it was based on the assumption that no man would be able to say no to such heartfelt supplication, and how much of it spoke to the real worry and desperation he knew she felt.

He also wondered, briefly and rather inconsequentially in this moment, if this was how she had begged for _his_ life with the Prince, as she had once told him she had done.

It did not surprise Benvolio that even the somber, battle-hardened General could not harden his heart against her earnest appeal.

"We will, mylady. You may rest easy, for tomorrow we ride out."

"Thank you," Rosaline sighed, sinking into a deep curtsey before she took Benvolio's arm and followed him outside. Her hand was trembling when she laid it on his arm, Benvolio noticed, but he could not fault her for showing some physical sign of her emotions when she had been forced to keep them so tightly locked inside herself in public.

Then they were in the antechamber and the door to the Doge's study clicked shut behind them - and the next moment, Rosaline was in his arms, her arms thrown around his neck, her cap blocking his view.

“We did it," she murmured into the side of his neck, perhaps trying to keep her voice low even though it was brimming with exultation, "Venice is coming to our aid.”

He felt her breathe in deeply and did the same, letting his exhale rush along the top of her head. Then he simply held on to her, and she to him, as she repeated his words:

“We did it.”

He nodded against her head, and then pulled back just enough to be able to look at her.

What he saw on her face took his breath away: a storm of relief and joy and triumph and pride.

"Well, _you_ did it, mostly."

"We both did our part. I merely provided the last piece of the puzzle."

"I don't mean to squabble over who may boast of this outcome,” she chastised gently. “I meant to thank you."

Accompanying these words was a smile so soft and precious that watching her, it seemed to Benvolio that time itself had ground to a halt simply so he could enjoy the sight a little longer.

But already as he looked at her that smile faded, replaced not by sadness but by something else; a curious, searching look... a look he had seen before, Benvolio realised suddenly, although the first time he had seen it, the circumstances had been a little different. There had been tears pooling in her eyes, desperation causing her lip to tremble when she had visited him in Verona's dungeons. But there had also been that same curiosity he saw glinting in her eyes now, the same flicker of uncertainty overcome by resolve.

Yes, he thought, he had reason to hope he knew what that look meant - but it was only hope for now, not certainty, and so Benvolio dared not move to meet her as he had the last time, too scared that he was wrong, and no longer possessing the reckless desperation of a dead man walking.

But Rosaline was brave enough for the two of them: Slowly, still with that searching look, she leaned closer to press a kiss to his cheek - and unlike the last time she had done so, her lips were allowed to linger.

In its delicate nature, the kiss seemed so intimate that Benvolio felt like an intruder himself, as if he was watching her finish a private train of thought that was not ready to be spoken out loud yet, and he closed his eyes as if to grant her privacy.

It took several long, beautiful moments until she moved again, letting her lips brush along his cheek to the corner of his mouth to administer a second kiss. A shaky breath escaped him, half relieved laugh, half pleasurable sigh: There was no doubt any more where her lips were headed next. The realisation made him feel momentarily light-headed, and in the process of stabilizing himself, he squeezed Rosaline's waist where he was holding on to her.

It was as if the motion had been a sign she had been waiting for, perhaps without even knowing it. The next moment, her lips met his directly, with much more certainty than she had shown before, and Benvolio welcomed her kiss with a sweeping, physical sense of relief.

He tightened his hands around her waist but dared not pull her closer so he could feel her, even though it was painfully tempting to do so without iron bars to separate them. Rosaline seemed to feel similarly, for she brought herself closer without prompting, arms entwining his neck and fingertips gliding up his scalp in a way that sent a shiver down his spine.

Her boldness made Benvolio bold in turn, and he traced the seam of her lips with his tongue, coaxing open her mouth so he could meet her even more intimately. She yielded with a happy little hum that vibrated along his lips, and the fact that she so readily gave herself over to his caress set him completely aflame.

This was a kiss unlike any Benvolio had ever experienced: not playful or seductive, and certainly not practiced - but earnest and shy and eager and curious, and full of a joy and relief that were made all the sweeter by the pain that had preceded them. Benvolio felt suddenly as if this was the first kiss he had ever received; as if all of his previous amorous adventures had been erased, and he forced (or allowed?) to study anew everything he thought he had known about such things - and if he was to relearn them with _her_ , he'd happily spend the rest of his life doing nothing else.

But life had other plans, or rather: Venice did.

Benvolio had just raised his hand to loosen the ribbons keeping that darned cap upon Rosaline's head when there were loud footsteps outside. Being quite thoroughly distracted, Benvolio only heard them when they were right at the door, and when it promptly burst open, they barely had time to jump apart before a group of men burst through, some of them bearing medals and other military insignia upon their clothing - the aforementioned Officers the General intended to speak to.

The men passed through the antechamber with barely more than a nod to the two people standing awkwardly to the side. The door closed behind them, and silence settled over the room once more.

Benvolio wondered if this meant that they could go back to kissing - but unfortunately, Rosaline seemed disinclined to do so. Perhaps startled by the reminder that they were rather exposed to prying eyes, she removed herself from his side to sit down, choosing a narrow, hard-backed chair that left no hope for him to squeeze in by her side to continue where they had left off, something he had very much hoped to do.

But he knew not how to instigate such a repeat, and Rosaline, after studying her hands for longer than the subject should warrant, began to look worried again.

"Do you think he means it?"

"Who, the Doge?"

"Him too, I guess - but I meant the General. Does he really expect you to go to battle alongside him? What does he think you can do if left unattended, incite his men to mutiny on the very eve of battle?"

"I think he wants us to prove that Verona is willing to pay for his help - in blood, if necessary."

Rosaline shuddered.

"I wish you did not have to do this."

"If we had remained in Verona, I'd have to fight too - and I'd not want to be idle when others are laying down their lives."

Her expression softened again.

"No, I expect you would not." A momentary, thoughtful silence, then she seemed to have come to some conclusion. "I shall go to Mantua on my own then."

The statement hit him like a slap to the face. _Mantua_! In all his thoughts of fighting, whether for duty or for glory, Benvolio had forgotten the real reason they were here. He felt wretched all of a sudden.

"You shouldn't… Maybe I can..."

"Do what, desert from the battlefield?" Rosaline teased. "No, I'll simply have to go the last bit of the way alone. I'm sure it won't be that difficult. Mantua is not all that far from Verona, after all. I can travel part of the way with you and the Doge's forces, and then continue on my own."

"I don't like that idea."

"But you cannot be in two places at once - and if the General wants you on this campaign, then that is where you have to be, even if I wished to have you safe at my side."

Her voice was calm, her face once more determined, chin raised in that obstinate manner that spelled trouble for all who sought to defy her, and Benvolio found himself gripped with a sudden sense of affection so strong he felt his chest tighten with it. Here she sat, facing the idea of having to head to Mantua alone and unprotected when he himself had promised her that he would prevent that very thing from happening - and yet she had the courage to claim that _her_ road was the safer one. Truly, the woman's courage knew no bounds.

Briefly, he entertained the notion of trying to persuade her to postpone her mission until he was returned from Verona, though he doubted she would accept such further delay to her sister's rescue in any case, and he himself hated the thought of leaving her behind in Venice, to face the Doge's petty grudge alone.

But ere he had time to express any of his muddled thoughts, the door to the Doge's study opened again, and one of the Officers bid them enter. Offering his arm to Rosaline when she rose to her feet was only part chivalry, for part of him simply welcomed the calm it provided to know her close.

But there was no need to be nervous: no one brought up any suggestion of reneging on their previous agreement, and instead the conversation revolved around practical details. Benvolio and Rosaline were asked to describe the area around Verona, possible approaches, means by which the Count's army could be forced to withdraw from the city walls and leave room for Verona's forces to attempt a sortie.

Benvolio tried to answer as well as he could, through in truth he had a habit of looking at Verona and its surroundings through the eye of an artist, appreciating their aesthetic properties more than their strategic ones. Rosaline was more helpful in this regard, providing details on where there were forests and hills to allow for an unseen approach.

Once the questions thinned out and the strategising began, Benvolio found it harder and harder to keep his thoughts from straying. As much as he had wished for it, when it actually came to planning Verona's liberation, he felt that there were other concerns in much more immediate need of contemplation. Or rather, one concern: Rosaline, and the question of why she had kissed him.

Twice now she had done so - but twice it had been an impulsive act, initiated in times of great emotional turmoil, and he knew not what to make of this. He knew what he _wanted_ it to mean, of course: that her opinion of him had changed over the course of their adventures, and affection had replaced her initial disdain. There were certainly aspects to her recent behaviour that seemed to make this plausible, such as her much-changed attitude towards him; her support and friendship and her repeated reassurances that she considered him a good man. But would that be enough for deep and true feelings to have awoken in her heart - a heart which, after all, had only recently been broken by another man?

More plausible, it seemed to him, was the idea that she had simply been overwhelmed by emotion on both occasions - grief and desperation on the first, relief and joy on the second. If kissing him was her choice of outlet for these overwhelming emotions, Benvolio would certainly not protest - but he still could not help but hope there was more to her approaches.

This, too, was cause for contemplation - but when he turned his thoughts to the issue of his own feelings, there was not much room for uncertainty. The fact of the matter was this: Somehow, over the course of their short and tumultuous acquaintance, the way he felt about Rosaline Capulet had changed dramatically, from irritation to gratitude for her help to friendship - and now, without a doubt, more even than that friendship.

Not too long ago, he had pled with Stella to run away with him, had made romantic plans of the new life they would embark upon together. He had never given much thought to what it was he felt towards her but had assumed it must have been love - now he knew it had been no more than a silly boy's infatuation, self-involved and thoughtless, and his desperate appeal born more out of loneliness than anything else, let alone a conviction that living on the run with him would make Stella truly happy. Now, Rosaline's happiness seemed paramount to everything else, and certainly his own, even if it meant setting her free as he had intended to do when he told her to let him die and be happy with the Prince.

She had refused, and her actions since then had added more and more weight to that choice - and fed more and more hope to his timid feelings.

At this point, Benvolio was torn from his thoughts by a dispute that threatened to erupt, stoked by the Doge's proclamation that he found it best to bid them both goodbye the next day, citing some flimsy excuse of necessary renovations. It meant he was all but throwing Rosaline out on the street - but seeing as Rosaline had no intention to stay behind in Venice anyway, she took it in stride.

Her announcement that she would leave with the General's forces, however, invited protest from the Officers: They began muttering amongst themselves about women bringing bad luck and trouble to any army, and Benvolio was about to chastise them for their superstitiousness when their commander put an end to their grumbling.

"You've no problem with women when they're camp followers - you will welcome the lady as an ambassador of our ally, and treat her with the according respect."

With that, the subject was closed, and soon after, the meeting disbanded. Benvolio was instructed to meet with the General's armourer to get equipped with battle-ready armour and a horse, and Rosaline retreated to their chamber.

It took some time to carry out his order, and by the time Benvolio returned from the nearby barracks, he was beyond impatient to finally speak to Rosaline alone. Scared as well, yes, but having twice escaped death now, he vowed to himself that he would confront her and ask for an explanation the moment he returned to their chamber.

When he was finally finished being measured and fitted and equipped with sufficient armor and supplies, as well as horses for himself and Rosaline and a tent for her to sleep in, Benvolio was advised in the strictest of terms to be ready to ride out at dawn the next morning. He hastened back to the palace, mentally repeating the long-winded argument he had formed in his head throughout the day as to why he deserved an explanation of her behaviour, especially regarding the kissing.

But all of his carefully prepared words fled right from his mind when he opened the door to their room to find Rosaline bustling about, carefully folding the clothes she had been lent by Helena over the course of their stay. If possible, she looked even more beautiful than she had when he had last seen her a mere few hours ago.

Upon hearing the door open, she turned and smiled as soon as she laid eyes on him.

"Did you get everything we'll need?"

"Yes." The armour he had been given was nothing special, certainly not comparable to the armour waiting for him back home at Montague House, but it would hopefully provide enough protection once he rode into battle. "And horses too, for both of us."

Rosaline nodded determinedly, already opening her mouth to ask more questions, when he blurted out:

"Why did you kiss me?"

She seemed momentarily thrown by this abrupt change of subject. But she pondered the question quietly for a moment - and her reply, when it came, was much, much simpler than anything he had come up with in his mind before.

"Because I wanted to."

And then, before he had even come to a conclusion on what to think about this answer, so simple and yet at the same time raising so many new questions, she lifted her chin slightly, a characteristically defiant gesture he must have seen dozens of times on her, and which his heart had learned to answer to with a fond little clench.

Her voice matched the gesture in defiance, but her next words could not have sounded any sweeter if she had purred them seductively: "And I would quite like to do so again."

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, I'm hella sick and a little feverish so this chapter probably isn't as good as it deserves to be - but I've had a shitty week and I decided that at least my babes deserve some happiness.

"Courage is always worth it, even if it may not always pay" - this had been a favourite saying of Rosaline's father, and advice Rosaline had taken to heart so far in her life. Granted, her father had probably not meant to encourage his daughter to go around soliciting men for kisses when he had imparted this advice; but had rather intended for it to mean that she should take charge where her own affairs where concerned, and speak out against injustice even when they were not. But in this moment, with Benvolio looking at her expectantly from the other side of the room and her heart beating wildly in her chest, she certainly needed courage.

She had reason to believe that her proclamation (or had it been taken as a request?) would not fall upon deaf ears, nor incite ridicule or reproach. After all, she had kissed him twice before, and had twice got the impression that he had been very receptive to the approach. Still, there was a chance he might rebuff her, or ask _why_ she had said - and done – as she had.

If he did, she would have to admit to the truth: that, once she had found out he was nothing at all like the selfish, bloodthirsty Montague she had first taken him for, Benvolio had taken up ever more space in her heart and her thoughts. His sharp tongue, she had learned, concealed a sweet and caring nature, his swagger and sardonic jests a deeply hurt soul. But it was not only his character that occupied her thoughts: with increasing frequency, they had lingered on other, much more tangible concerns, such as the observation that the colour of his eyes seemed to shift from blue to green depending on the light, or the question if, when he had held her the other night, he had been as aware of the contours of her body as she had been of his, and if their touches, friendly and comforting as they were intended, always sent a little shock along his skin as they did hers.

These were the thoughts that had increasingly distracted her from her mission the past few days, but she had dutifully shoved them aside whenever they occurred, and had returned her attention to her sister, and Verona, and the question of how the Doge might be persuaded to help both of them.

But then that first battle had been won, the Doge's aid secured, and when she had stood in that antechamber and looked at Benvolio, Rosaline had suddenly found that she was sick of always thinking of others and never of herself. Intoxicated with their triumph, she had found herself turning stubbornly, arrogantly selfish in that moment, and had thought that, after all she had done, all she had been ready to do for the sake of others, it was only just that she should get to do something for _herself_ in that moment.

So she had kissed Benvolio Montague, simply because she had wanted to know what it would feel like without tears in her eyes and fear in her guts and grief in her heart – and the answer was as simple as it was awe-inspiring: It felt wonderful.

It had felt like time was stopping and racing by all at the same time, carrying her along to some distant elysian future while simultaneously anchoring her firmly in the present. And in that moment, the present had consisted only of Benvolio: the taste of his lips and the texture of his hair under her fingertips and the firmness of his hands on her waist.

The moment had felt like something that was for _her_ , and her alone – not for House Capulet, not for Verona, but for _Rosaline_.  
  
And as soon as it had ended, she had known she would want it again.

Modesty had made her step away from him earlier, to keep herself from becoming the subject of gossip for the Doge's soldiers, servants, or courtiers if they happened to stumble upon them behaving so shamelessly, but her thoughts had returned to the subject throughout the afternoon. And every time they did, the response had been the same: a sweet, fluttering ache deep inside her at the mere thought of kissing him again, letting him kiss her back as he had before, letting him perhaps tighten his chaste grip on her waist and pull her flush against him...

But just when the meeting was finally ended and Rosaline had hoped they could retreat to the privacy of their chamber, Benvolio had been sent on a number of errands, and Rosaline had spent the entire time he was away pacing their room, folding and unfolding dresses and trying to find some way to keep her hands and head busy.

Now, Benvolio was back and staring at her, slack-jawed, in the silence following the most shameless words she had ever uttered.

For all her attempted courage, now she did get a little nervous.

“Unless you do not wish to...”

She got no further: With a few brisk steps, Benvolio strode across the room, grasped her waist as he had before, pulled her close, and kissed her.

Which, Rosaline thought, answered her question just fine.

In fact, there was surprising eloquence in his kiss: Even in its urgency, his lips meeting hers with force and determination, there was a gentleness behind it, a careful restraint in the way he held her. But at the same time there was need, and _hunger_ , that same hunger she had felt before, when she had kissed him in Verona's dungeons. Back then, she had thought it was a condemned man's eagerness to devour whatever scraps of pleasure life deigned to throw him in his last hours. But it was back now, less desperate perhaps but just as strong, just as breathtaking, and she realized it had been for _her_ all along.

The realisation was enough to stir very similar feelings in herself. But though she had felt that pull deep inside her before, she had never felt it like _this_ , with an intensity that left her at the same time brimming with satisfaction and clamouring for _more more more_. Her lips opened under his without any prompting at all, pushing back when he deepened the pressure of his kiss and chasing his lips when that pressure lightened. Soon, the restrained way he held her seemed painfully inadequate, for she wanted to be held _closer,_ and set about achieving that closeness with greedy, clumsy hands on his shoulders. When his hand brushed up her arm and neck to cup the side of her face, every inch of her skin he touched felt as if it was on fire, and yet all she could think of was the expanse of skin that was yet barred from his touch, hidden under a dress she had chosen specifically for its prim cut and stiff material this morning, and which now seemed to turn from welcome armour into the most restraining prison.

Rosaline was not naïve enough to misunderstand what it was he was stoking in her, and – she hoped – she incited in him in turn: It was that very thing desire whose all-encompassing power poets and mothers alike warned their daughters of, and priests bid them beg for absolution for.

But after all she had learned recently of how fleeting life was, and how hard one had to fight for every bit of happiness, Rosaline was not about to let unnecessary modesty rob her of these precious moments. Who would judge her if she had long since left maidenly chastity behind? Venice thought her to be a married woman, Verona had other things to worry about now than the comportment of just one of its citizens, and God.... well, God, she thought blasphemously, certainly owed her this much, after all he had put her through.

But even as Rosaline was deciding to completely abandon all propriety and religious instruction in her rebellious pursuit of pleasure, Benvolio broke the kiss to pull back. She let out an involuntary noise of protest before she had time to put her objections into words, but when she opened her eyes and looked at him, she felt that perhaps interrupting their kiss was worth it just to see the expression on his face.

Benvolio looked flushed and dazed, and filled with a sense of _awe_ she would never in a million years have expected anyone to feel because of _her_. At the sight, that thing she had begun to feel when she looked at him, cautiously labelled “affection” in her mind, and more often than not tamped down to make room for more important matters, could no longer be contained: It swelled and spread all throughout her, seeping into every crack and dark corner of her soul and healing every hurt, every slight she had suffered recently.

And just as she was about to be completely overcome with emotion (and the niggling suspicion that perhaps “affection” was no longer a strong enough word to describe her feelings for the man before her), Benvolio took the opportunity to make a joke.

"I take it this means you no longer hate me?"

It was so very _him_ to be jesting in this moment, and about the most terrible parts of their shared history, that Rosaline knew not whether to react with affection or exasperation.

“You can rest assured that I do not.”

But of course, what lay behind the jest was too serious to joke away – and too fresh were the memories of days when it had been temptingly convenient to simply blame him for every tragedy, every loss that had befallen her.

"I never really hated you. I never even knew you enough to judge you by anything other than your family name."

"I know. And if I could go back in time and undo what my family has done to yours, I would."

"And so would I - but all we can do now is look forward."

Because that, Rosaline realised, was what she wanted more than anything else. For so long, she had felt tethered to the past, weighed down by it – mourning parents long dead, remaining bound in servitude to a family name without partaking of its glory, and waiting for word from a man who had loved and left her years ago. But now more than ever, she wanted to leave that past behind her, and look forward to a future of her own making.

This was easier said than done, Rosaline was aware, for it was difficult to look any further than her plans to see her sister and her home-town delivered from peril. After that... well, there might be peace again, if everything worked out. But what would she do with that peace? She assumed she would have to rebuild her life, despite everything that had happened. Get married eventually, or find some other way to secure her own and her sister's future.

But all of that seemed so far away, so abstract - and in contrast, the only thing that seemed solid and real in this moment was Benvolio, whom she could simply reach out and touch. And because she could, she did just that, tracing the line of his jaw with her fingertips and watching as his eyes fluttered shut at the caress. Against the backdrop of her thoughts on the future, the sight suddenly took on a much more significant meaning: what if _this_ was what her future could look like?

In surprisingly little time, she had become used to having Benvolio by her side whether they were facing outward enemies or battling their own dark thoughts, and to seeing him before her when she went to sleep with worry clouding her mind, or woke up after it had poisoned her sleep. Having spent the last years knowing that, when it came to it, the only person who could really be trusted to have her and her sister's best interests at heart was herself, it felt strange to think that maybe she needn't carry that burden alone anymore. And yet, that was precisely what Benvolio's actions these past days had seemed to suggest, as he had fought relentlessly to keep her safe, and to help her get to her sister. Was this not something worth holding on to?

It was, she found, and the thought of being allowed to rely on his unwavering support even after their mission was over, and to enjoy more of that pleasure he so easily evoked within her now, caused that selfish sense of _want_ to rear its head once more, that same want she had spent painful years trying to teach herself not to feel anymore – or, if that could not be achieved, at the very least not to tell anyone about. And yet, while everyone, including the man she thought she loved, had berated her for daring to have wishes of her own, Benvolio had worked to help her achieve them. And now, even if those wishes had changed, she hoped he would do so again - provided, of course, that they aligned with his own.

But as for asking if they _did_... well, she was determined to be brave, but no amount of determination would make her _that_ brave.

After all, was this not the beginning of so many a cautionary tale? A young woman with her head full of dreams, a young man with a talent for sweet kisses... and not a lot of meaning behind any of them, let alone any sort of promise.

She found it hard to imagine Benvolio as the callous protagonist in such a tale - too true seemed to be his character, too earnest his declarations of friendship. Still, while she had been quite literally locked away following the decision for their engagement, and very sheltered even before, Benvolio had enjoyed all the freedom of a young man of his standing, had perhaps received instruction to sow some wild oats as the saying went, and even knew his way around a brothel. What if, to a man such as this, the meaning and measure of a kiss was quite different than it was to her?

But that was too painful a thought, and unwilling to let these doubts spoil her current pleasure, Rosaline forced herself not to worry overmuch about plans and promises and simply enjoy the here and now - for while their future was uncertain, the here and now was theirs alone.

But of course, even that here and now was severely limited, for soon, they would separate to face new dangers, and face them alone.

"Are you scared? Of the battle?"

Rosaline knew she would be, in his place.

"Yes." Though the change of subject had been abrupt and no doubt unpleasant, Benvolio's reply came quickly, with no shame at an admission that many men would be too proud to make. Rosaline appreciated it, for it made her feel a little less silly about her own fears. "But there's no way around it - we all must do our part."

The meaning of his words was clear: he had no desire to speak of trials to come, and Rosaline could understand that.

“All the more reason not to think of it now, then,” she suggested, with a sultry darkness to her voice that surprised both her and Benvolio – but she had been so forward already, she doubted she had much to lose when it came to his opinion of her. And, as she realized a moment later, she had lost nothing even by acting so wantonly. Benvolio's eyes darkened and he pulled her close again, nuzzling her neck to murmur into her ear:

“You truly are a wise woman.”

This of course was a great opportunity to not only agree with his praise but remind him that he would do well to listen to her in the future, but Benvolio's gentle nuzzling had turned into a kiss to her pulse that stole the words right out of her mind. Instinct took over instead, and she closed her eyes and tilted her head to the side to allow him better access, and Benvolio showed no hesitation in making use of that access, having perhaps forgotten that it was him who had stopped them before, or decided that his reasons for doing so were no longer valid.

This was a different type of kiss than before, Rosaline understood instinctively, fingers digging into his shoulders as heat flared inside her, and a dangerous one - but not with him: If she trusted anyone not to do anything that might cause her harm, it was him.

He would not have had the time to do much damage anyway, for soon there was a knock upon the door, and Benvolio let go of her to answer it. She would not have been up to the task, Rosaline knew: her head was swimming, her legs felt weak, and her heart was fluttering so animatedly she was afraid she was dealing with the heart palpitations apparently so common in young ladies when confronted with the attentions of young gentlemen.

Luckily, outside the door was a friend she trusted herself with even when her mind - and, presumably, her dress - were in disarray. Helena had come to bid them goodbye, which meant news of the campaign against Verona had by now spread around the court. Benvolio received her good wishes and answered her questions, which gave Rosaline time to somewhat compose herself. She even remembered the dresses she had meant to return, neatly folded and then immediately forgotten the moment Benvolio had entered the room, and offered to help Helena carry them back to her room - a short trip that would hopefully give her enough time to come up with an appropriately heartfelt expression of gratitude for all of Helena's help.

Leaving Benvolio behind, they began the short trip, each with an armful of clothes, and Helena asked lightly:

“You looked rather out of breath when I arrived – are you quite well?” But Helena had barely finished the question when recognition lit up her features. “Oh – I take it my visit came at a very inopportune moment, and you and your husband would prefer to say your goodbyes in peace.”

“Oh no, we need not say goodbye yet, for we will travel together for at least another day or two,” Rosaline replied innocently before she understood exactly what Helena had alluded to, and she felt her face flush with embarrassment. Though kissing Benvolio was very much a new and extraordinary thing, Helena must necessarily assume that it was par for the course for their marriage, and that Rosaline had dealt with her fair share of teasing about the subject of marital affection. Rosaline tried to act like this was the case indeed, with some success she thought. “We do dread being separated – but I am nonetheless happy you sought us out to say goodbye, and I can assure you that so is my husband.”

It was odd how lightly the fraudulent title slipped off her lips now, how easy it was to convincingly play the happy, doting wife, especially considering what a struggle it had been to even pretend to be shyly smitten in the days following their betrothal. But then, though they were not bound to each other in the way they claimed to be, there was no need to lie or pretend that they did care about each other deeply, and perhaps that was what made the difference – their titles for each other were lies, but the sentiments they implied were not too far from the truth.

Rosaline pondered this strange development silently for quite some time before it occurred to her that perhaps she ought to pay attention to the person walking next to her, instead of letting her thoughts stray back to the one waiting for her back in their room. By the time she came to this conclusion, however, they had reached Helena's room, and her friend bid her set down the borrowed clothes. This was her opportunity to express her gratitude, and Rosaline did so with an earnest smile.

"I cannot accurately express how grateful we are to you for all your help. We might have never made it inside the palace without you, and you not only equipped me with clothes and necessities, but gave valuable advice as well. I dare say you have three good friends in Verona now, should you ever need them."

Helena squeezed her hands warmly.

"I'll keep that in mind - and who knows, perhaps I might get to visit Verona some day, once her troubles are over. And as for helping you, it has been my pleasure, for you and your husband are honest, decent people, and your devotion to your city is commendable."

She hesitated for a moment, then continued: "And I would not wish for you to think I'd take advantage of your gratitude - but I do have one favour to ask of you."

"And I'll be happy to grant it, and not accuse you of taking any advantage!", Rosaline exclaimed.

"In that case," Helena turned towards the writing desk tucked into a corner of her room and picked up a folded, sealed letter, "I would ask if you could deliver a letter from me to Isabella - I trust your discretion a lot more than that of any of the court messengers I would have to otherwise entrust it to."

Rosaline took the letter without hesitation and slipped it into the pocket of her dress.

"It will take some time, but I will make sure the letter reaches Isabella safely."

Awkwardly, now it fell to Rosaline to ask yet another favour of her friend, but this too was granted once explained, and soon they said goodbye for good, with cordial and heartfelt words, and Rosaline headed back to her and Benvolio's room 

When she reached it, she found Benvolio sitting on the bench by the window, a plate of meat, bread and fresh fruit on a little table before him. The unexpectedly domestic sight seemed to turn the room they had slept in for only a few days into something approaching a home, and Benvolio's bright smile when he saw her only added to that impression.

“They brought us some food. It seems the Doge does not mean to invite us for dinner tonight.”

His wry tone seemed to say exactly what Rosaline thought:

“Good.”

Benvolio chuckled, then moved aside and patted the bench next to him.

“Come on, eat. You must be hungry too, after all the talking and planning we did today.”

She was, Rosaline had to admit – there had been refreshments brought in at some point during their long meeting with the Doge and the General, but that must have been hours ago. She had simply been too preoccupied with other matters to think of it. Thus, she gladly accepted Benvolio's invitation and sat down next to him, reaching out for some bread and meat as Benvolio poured her some wine.

“As for the planning, I've been thinking of Mantua,” he began, and Rosaline listened as she ate.

“Earlier, when we looked at maps of the area surrounding Verona, I saw that there is a monastery about halfway between Verona and Mantua, as well as a nunnery to the South of Mantua. I thought I might ask the General to allow me to bring you to the monastery and then return to join him and his troops. This way, if he really insists I join him when he retakes Verona, you need only make one day's travel on your own.” He paused to take a sip of wine, but he was apparently not finished laying out his plan yet. “And on the way back, once you and your sister have made it out of the city, you might seek shelter at the nunnery, and wait there for word of Verona. It has the added advantage that, should you be pursued, they would expect you to head North, to Verona, and might not look for you there.”

Rosaline ceased eating in order to stare at him.

“You have thought of all this while I was gone with Helena?”

“Well, I _began_ thinking about it the moment the General said I had to go with him.” Her astonishment must be showing on her face, for a smug little smile appeared on his. “But given that I was a little distracted, it took me some time to work it all out.”

The way he looked at her when he said it made it clear what exactly had distracted him, and Rosaline averted her eyes, feeling suddenly shy.

To her relief, Benvolio did not comment on  her sudden bashfulness.

“You still came up with a solid plan for how to get me to Mantua and back. I now need to find a way inside the palace, and I've been thinking the easiest way to do that would be as a serving maid. I have worked in my uncle's household long enough to prove that I possess the necessary skills. I've asked Helena to provide me with a letter of reference – if a lady-in-waiting at the Doge's court vouches for me, I might have a better chance at gaining access. I'll have to make up some story, something that invokes pity but conveys respectability as well.”

Benvolio nodded approvingly, immediately providing his own suggestion for the task at hand. 

"A widow, perhaps - widows are generally considered very respectable." 

She liked the the thought, and added some of her own, and together, they had soon come up with a plausible cover story that should help her get into the palace. 

Which meant, Rosaline realised with a sudden swooping feeling as she looked out and saw the sun had set, and all but extinguished itself in the water of the lagoon, that there was nothing left to talk about, no planning or preparing to do. The only thing left to do was go to bed - but their earlier actions made the very thought seem charged with danger and promise alike, and Rosaline suddenly felt nervous.  

After her shockingly forward behaviour, would her bedmate have certain expectations of her now? And if so, would she want to fulfill them? Would she even stand a chance at succeeding, considering her lack of experience, and his presumed wealth of it? 

But Benvolio made no mention of going to bed; did in fact not spare the bed in question so much as one look. Instead, after her straying thoughts had caused her to fall silent, he broke that silence to ask a most unexpected question. 

“Do you think the Prince still means for us to marry?”

“I know not what he means to do,” Rosaline replied honestly, stomach sinking as she remembered her last conversation with Escalus – a conversation that had led to him sinking down on one knee and asking for her hand in marriage. Even if he had changed his mind about that again, he might still be reluctant to give that same hand to another man, even one he had deemed perfectly acceptable for her when it suited his plans. 

If that was even what Benvolio had in mind, she reminded herself, and chastised her heart for cantering off in excitement at the thought. 

But she need not have worried: her hopeful heart had been right. 

"Whatever it may be, once all of this is over, I would go to your uncle and ask for your hand in marriage once more."

"You... You would?"

The hopeful canter inside her ribcage turned into a joyful gallop.

Just a little earlier, she had entertained very similar thoughts, but they had seemed premature; downright preposterous, for only a silly girl would receive a kiss and jump straight to visions of a shared future. But now, it seemed her thoughts had not been all that silly after all – or if they were, Benvolio had pursued similar ideas, and had even begun to tackle such practicalities as asking her uncle for his blessing.

What had seemed like a far-away daydream earlier suddenly inched that much closer to becoming a reality, and one she could imagine with startling ease, considering how little they really knew each other - but then again, many couples got married after having been acquainted for less time, and certainly in less depth. Juliet had been expected to accept the fiancé her father had chosen sight unseen, with nothing to vouch for him but his title and name. In Benvolio's case, his name had been the opposite of a recommendation, and yet his character and comportment had convinced her of his worth.

Benvolio's response was somewhat... prosaic.

"We've successfully made it through our recent trials together - I wager we stand a good chance at making it through more, if need be."

Rosaline stifled a laugh. " _That_ is how you would woo a woman? By asking her to stick together for survival?"

She had summarised his words in an overly ridiculous manner, and Benvolio chuckled - but his mirth lasted only for a moment before he turned serious again.

"In these troubled times, that goal seems difficult enough to achieve." He paused, perhaps at the thought of those very troubles they had been through - but when he spoke again, he sounded not wistful or bitter, but determinedly hopeful. "But I also think that we could make each other happy."

Unlikely as that very thing had seemed when they had first been forced into a union by their families, now Rosaline thought that she agreed with his assessment. Already, and with no legal or moral duty, Benvolio was singularly focused on protecting and caring for her, and had quickly become one of the few bright spots in those dark days: the only person who made her feel safe, however fleetingly, and who could make her laugh no matter how bleak everything else might seem. And as for her own determination to see him happy, there could be no doubt about it.

"I for one am willing to try," Benvolio affirmed her very thoughts. "Unless you still hold your former objections to our union?"

Rosaline could only stare at him in disbelief.

“Hold on to my objections?! How could you _possibly_ think...”

And then she saw his smile and realised that he did not in fact think so, and only meant to tease her.

“Have I not shown you that none of my objections have held up? That I believe you to be a good man, and have come to the conclusion that I was merely prejudiced against your name?”

“Aye, you might have. I still might need some more proof, just to be sure.”

“Do you now?” Rosaline was catching on to the game he was playing – and she was more than willing to play along. She leaned over to him, teasingly slowly, until she was close enough that their lips almost touched, before she stopped again. “Is this the proof you had in mind?”

“It will do,” he murmured against her lips, closing the remaining hair's breadth of distance between them to kiss her again, and prove that just like her, he had fallen prey to the sin of greed.

But Rosaline's mind was not as easy to adjust to the situation as her body apparently was, which was all instantly aggreeable to giving itself entirely over to his touch, and seemed to exist for the sole purpose of shivering when his hands brushed down her spine, and sighing when he pressed a kiss to a certain spot on her neck, and swaying along with him when he moved, as if connected to him by some sympathetic string.

Unfortunately, her mind clamoured for more explanation, and she could not resist drawing back to ask for it.

"You know my own stance has changed - but has yours, really? Are you really sure you wish to go through with this marriage, with none to force it, and perhaps even at the risk of angering your uncle and suffering even more for it?"

"For one thing, I have no intention of letting my uncle have a say in my future any more." Benvolio sounded fierce and harsh, and she felt a sense of pride at hearing it: No matter how he tried, this was a spirit Lord Montague could neither own nor destroy. "But it is precisely the thought of our families that worries me - for you in particular. Verona might be preoccupied by danger now, but as soon as it passes, people will turn their attention back to their old gossip - and after travelling alone with me for days, you can be sure your name will be the first to discuss."

Rosaline's stomach sank - not at the prospect of being gossiped about in Verona, but at the direction Benvolio's thoughts seemed to have taken before he had suggested asking for her hand again.

 _"I feel responsible for you"_ , he had once told her - was it this responsibility driving him now? A perceived duty to provide for her, rather than a genuine _wish_ to do so?

His next words seemed to confirm it.

"Your reputation will come out of this severely damaged, and it will be my fault for convincing you to leave town with me. Your uncle might choose to banish you for it, or strive to repair the damage by marrying you off to the first old widower who offers a suitable bride price. If you feel like the better option would be to marry me, who is a friend of yours, and at the very least still in possession of all his senses, then I would be happy do to so."

"And what do _you_ feel like, apart from responsibility, and guilt? Is there any part of you that wishes to marry me for _your_   happiness, rather than simply to prevent _my_ misfortune?"

Her voice was harsher than she had intended, almost shrill, but she knew not how to control it, or the feeling of hurt that came with his words. It was a ridiculous feeling, of course, and ungrateful to boot, for his offer was as sensible as it was generous - but from him, she wanted no generosity, no pity, and, after the way he had kissed her earlier, certainly nothing so prosaic as common sense.

"I've been considered a burden and a duty for too long - I'd not wish to be seen as such by you."

"Rosaline..."

"And I'd certainly not wish for you to worry about my reputation."

"I don't give a damn about your reputation!" His voice grew agitated for only a moment, before it darkened pomisingly. "In fact, I'd gladly spend the rest of the night continuing to ruin it."

Rosaline huffed irritatedly, but his finger on her lips kept her from replying.

"Will you let me defend myself against your accusations of cruel friendship and loyalty?"

"Now you're being fastidious on purpose."

"Not all of us are as brave as you, Capulet, to simply say what we want."

He took a deep breath, seemingly to steady himself, took hold of her hands, and continued:

"But if you _will_ force me to do so, I have this to say on my own feelings: That for myself, I wish nothing more than to be able to spend a little more time with you, or a lot more if the Lord wills it. To keep waking up and seeing you safe. To keep spending my days with you, and talking through the worst of my nights as we have recently. So, though I do want to keep you safe from gossip and ruin, there is nothing selfless about my proposal. And you need not be afraid I'll ever consider you a burden – if anything, you have been a blessing to me."

He held her hands throughout this remarkable little speech, his gaze steady and sincere, and for all his tendency to make light of things, she knew now that he meant every word - and just like before, she felt filled by that warm feeling, almost overwhelmed by it, until she was almost ready to call it by its true name.

She had to hand it to him, Rosaline thought wryly: Whether he was yelling at her in the streets of Verona or declaring his feelings in the simplest, most candid manner, this particular Montague certainly had a talent for evoking a response within her.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty much exactly 30% Rosaline being her usual brave awesome self and 70% Benvolio being a lovesick sap, and I'm not even a little sorry. Also, this may be the longest chapter in this fic yet.

After spending much of his youth prowling the streets with his friends at night, chasing whatever pleasure and excitement Verona might offer them, Benvolio found waking up at dawn to be quite the adjustment. Luckily, it was made rather more pleasant by the fact that Rosaline was lying not only next to him but practically draped across his body, arms thrown over his chest, tousled hair tickling his cheek.

He remembered waking with just her hand on his chest the other morning and feeling like it was the most incredible testament to her trust in him – but _this_? This was so very far from what he had ever thought he might expect from her that for a moment, he fancied he might still be asleep, and only dreaming this sweet scene. But he was not, his senses told his sceptical brain, and provided ample proof: the warmth of her skin under the linen nightgown, the softness of her curves and the strength of her limbs pressed against his body, the now-familiar scent of her when he bent his head to press a kiss to the crown of her head.

This was something he could do now, he reminded himself with a little thrill, not in secret as he had found himself imagining when he had held her a few nights ago, but without shame or need for apology even if she should wake up and catch him. He could do so because, as of last night, Rosaline Capulet was once again his betrothed, and this time it was her own choice – and one she had conveyed very clearly and emphatically.

Once again, last night had confirmed one of the few things he was sure of when it came to her: that when dealing with this particular Capulet, courage and honesty were always rewarded.

When he had attempted to evade her question of his motives for proposing they get married with an excuse of rational reasons, she had got angry instead, unexpectedly so. Pragmatic as she was, he had thought Rosaline would appreciate that he had weighed the advantages she stood to gain from their union. Instead, she had seemed hurt, and only a confession of his secret, selfish reasons had appeased her. It had confused him in the moment, but after some thought, he had realised what her reaction had meant: That she must have developed a similar attachment to the one that had taken root inside him so quickly and completely, and that she had wanted to see that attachment returned instead of binding herself to him for mercenary reasons.

Even now, hours later, the thought still filled him with elation: That she wanted him as he wanted her, not because she was told to act like it; not because she saw him as a convenient way out of her uncle's sphere of influence, but because she had found something in being with him that she had come to enjoy.

And that she had enjoyed herself yesterday, of that he was sure, at least when it came to the physical aspects of their time together. Rosaline was not an experienced kisser; though, as he knew from stumbling upon her meeting with the Prince, not a complete novice either. But she was a quick study, and as passionate about kissing as she was about everything else – something he had wondered about during his increasingly frequent musings about her, and which had been thoroughly and delightfully confirmed.

The discovery had stoked his desire even further, but Benvolio had forced himself to hold back and keep his kisses as chaste as possible. Having once been allowed to kiss her, it would not do to let greed make him push for more and intimidate her in the process. Even as they sat by the window, he had noticed her eyes straying to the bed, not with anticipation for what might be done in such a bed but with a nervous expression, and he did not want her to feel like her agreeing to marry him meant that she would have to follow that agreement up with offerings she was not prepared to give yet.

So he had blocked out all thoughts of the bed and stayed seated by her side on their padded bench by the window, where they had spent the night before talking of their lost loved ones and trying to absolve each other of their guilt over those losses. Last night, there had been considerably less talking, which Benvolio had not minded in the least. Having once understood that he had no intention of pressuring her into anything she was not ready for, Rosaline had relaxed markedly, had let him draw her into his arms and leaned against him, her back to his chest, to look out across the bay where the boats' lanterns were once again blinking prettily.

They had sat like this for a long time, talking very little, and nothing of importance, or simply staying quiet for long, surprisingly comfortable stretches of time. True to his decision not to pressure her, Benvolio had done no more than press the occasional kiss to her temple, her cheek, or her neck, and found that for now, feeling her lean into his caresses was satisfaction enough, and all other desires could wait.

In this manner, they had sat until common sense told them that sleep would best prepare them for the day ahead, and that the sensible thing to do would be to retreat to the bed – where, once again, Benvolio restrained himself and only offered the lightest, gentlest of kisses with his goodnight. It was Rosaline who had, after a moment's hesitation, drawn closer and thrown her arm around him, with a look that suggested she was unsure if the contact was welcome. It was, of course, and Benvolio had indulged in just one more kiss to reassure her of this.

She had welcomed the affirmation with a small smile and tucked herself against him so he could close his arms around her, and this was how he had found her this morning.

Watching her now, it was interesting to reconcile the sight of her, sleeping peacefully, with the way he had so often observed her before, sharp and willful and determined, first facing off against him and then joining his side to become his unlikely champion. She was always magnificent in those moments, all righteous fury and steely will, but now she was beautiful in a different way, soft and relaxed, serene in her utter trust in him. It was a trust he intended never to betray, for it had quickly become one of his most precious possessions, and still never failed to fill him with awe.

Unfortunately, he had to disturb her slumber after all, for dawn was creeping upon them, and the General would be waiting for them to join his troops.

With a sigh of regret, he set about waking his sleeping betrothed, turning the unpleasant task into a diverting one by trying out different means to achieve his goal: From a kiss to her cheek to a whisper in her ear and eventually, when neither spelled success, a cheeky tickle to her waist that made her squirm rather delightfully against him before she awoke, shooting upright with a gasp.

"Did we oversleep? Did they leave without us?"

He had to laugh at her panicked expression, before he quickly reassured her.

"No one has left yet. But they will if we don't get up and ready to join them."

Rosaline nodded determinedly, making as if to follow his implicit order on the spot. This of course was not quite what Benvolio had intended, for as much as he had enjoyed observing Rosaline as she slept, he had also looked forward to spending a little time in bed with her awake.

Sitting up, he crept up behind her to sling his arms across her clavicle and pull her, gently, back against him. He pressed a lingering kiss to her neck, feeling her shiver and her pulse speed up under his lips, and he could not stop a satisfied little smirk from sneaking onto his face: It seemed he had found an even better way of jolting her awake.

"What, no _"Good morning, my beloved"_? No kiss for your betrothed?"

With his face still nuzzled against her neck – which he could not help but notice she had angled so as to allow him better access – he could not see her expression, but he would have bet good money that she was rolling her eyes at his teasing.

"For waking me so rudely? I think not!"

But her haughty tone was a playful exaggeration, and despite her words, she leaned back into his embrace and turned her head so his lips could find hers.

Waking up early, Benvolio decided, was still not his favourite thing to do – but if it could be done like _this_ , he might get used to it.

***

 

With very little time to spare before the troops' departure, they joined the General on the forecourt of the barracks to ride out, Rosaline close by his side to make sure none of the men got any ideas about the capacity in which she was travelling with them.

Rosaline looked a little intimidated to be suddenly surrounded by so many soldiers, armed and armoured, spirits high and voices loud with excitement and masked fear. But there also seemed to be a hint of excitement on her own face – eagerness to get away from Venice, no doubt, but curiosity and anticipation too. Hers was a spirit that did not take well to being confined, and even a trip like this, surrounded not by a travelling party of friends but by an army, had its appeal to such a spirit. Once all of this was over, Benvolio thought suddenly, they should travel together so she could see more of the world: Milan and Florence and Rome, places of art and learning, full of interesting sights and even more interesting people. She might like that.

They had not spoken much of the future last night, once the decision had been made that they would spend it together, as if they were both afraid that just saying their hopes of future happiness out loud would invite fate to dash them. But that did not mean that Benvolio had not thought about it, and rather a lot too.

Most of those thoughts, he had to admit, had been concerned with rather tangible concerns, like the thought of always waking up next to her the way he had this morning, her body nestled warm and soft against his. Once they were married, he had hope that he would be allowed to do more than kiss her during such private moments, to let his hands go exploring and find out how best to make her react to his touch the way she reacted to his kisses, with little sighs and gasps and the occasional delighted shiver as she pressed herself closer. By his own standards their kisses had been rather chaste so far, but even so he had seen glimpses of the passion slumbering within her, and God willing he would soon be allowed to see more of it, and to try and sate the delightful hunger that broke through her composure from time to time.

Those voluptuous thoughts were not the only things on his mind, of course, but they were the easiest to imagine. Other things were harder to paint a picture of, simply because he had no experience of them: Finding a house to live in together and decorating it to their taste; sitting down to eat together; riding out or reading or playing chess or whatever other means of passing the time were deemed appropriate for respectable married people – which he assumed excluded drinking and brawling and visits to disreputable establishments. Of course, knowing Rosaline, respectability would hopefully not be the first thing she would want out of their marriage, so the fact that he knew very little of how respectable married people were supposed to act ultimately ought not to matter much: He would simply ask Rosaline what she wanted, and see to procuring it.

The army rode out amid much noise and hullo, Benvolio and Rosaline at an honorary place right behind the General. Once they had left the city behind, he even fell back to ride with them, and proved himself once again a man well worth spending their time with: The older man made conversation pleasantly but not frivolously, and continued to treat both of them with the utmost respect.

With every step they took away from Venice, Rosaline seemed to become a little lighter: Her posture turned less rigid, her smiles came more brightly and easily, and wisps of hair began to escape her thick braid as the wind tugged at it. At one point, he looked over to see her with her eyes closed, face turned up towards the sun, and an expression of utmost serenity on her face. The sight was so captivating that it nearly caused Benvolio to steer his horse off the road, and Rosaline's moment of quiet enjoyment was broken by the ensuing commotion.

"Eyes on the road, son," the General chastised from his other side, but there was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes that told Benvolio the older man had observed exactly what had happened. The next stretch of road, Benvolio travelled with his cheeks and ears burning as if he was a green boy caught staring at the object of his first youthful affection.

Luckily, he was not quite such a green boy, and the pretense of their marriage allowed him to take a few more liberties than mere puppy love would have allowed: No one questioned it when he helped Rosaline onto and off her horse whenever they took a break, steadying her with hands on her waist on the way up and catching her in his arms when she climbed down. They both knew she was well capable of accomplishing these things on her own, but Rosaline did not point this out, and only swatted at his hands when they became a little too daring in slipping from her waist down the curve of her back.

He made sure not to act too outrageously, for he did not want the men to treat her with any less respect, and he was not sure how much Rosaline would appreciate shameless displays of affection. Instead, he found smaller, subtler ways to touch her: a hand cupping hers when he handed her his water skin, a quick brush of his lips to her temple when they stood close together and no one was paying them any attention. These little affections Rosaline uttered no objection to, and even returned them herself with a hand on his arm or a secretive smile that made him look forward to finally retreating to their tent in the evening.  
  
But ere they did, Rosaline surprised him once again.

At sunset, the soldiers made camp with efficient speediness, and while there were no fires allowed to avoid being seen, they still gathered in little groups to have a cold dinner of bread and meat. Benvolio and Rosaline joined the General's such little group after putting up Rosaline's tent, but the men ate quickly and silently, and soon left again to see to order in the camp.

They were left behind, perched together on Benvolio's cloak, to watch the hustle and bustle around them. At least, Benvolio was watching – Rosaline, he noticed when he turned his head to look at her, had leaned back on her arms to tilt up her head and look at the stars.

“This is quite a nice change from the Doge's palace, isn't it?”

Benvolio had to laugh. “Not too many people would prefer a military camp in the middle of nowhere to the grandest palace in the North.”

Rosaline shrugged. “It may be grand, but it still felt so stifling. Out here, I feel like I can breathe again.”

He had to admit, there was truth to her words: Between the constant diversions, daily introductions to new people, and the lingering sense of being watched by prying eyes, Benvolio too had begun to feel a little claustrophobic at the Doge's palace. There was something to be said for feeling the mild wind tug at his hair and looking up to see the stars glint above them, and he followed Rosaline's example and leaned back as well.

They remained like this for a while, stretched out on his coat to silently marvel at the sight above them, a black canvas dotted with gleaming specks of gold that seemed likely to hold all the secrets of the universe, and to keep them safe for years and years to come.

By the time Rosaline spoke again, he was so deep in thought that her voice momentarily startled him.

“I've been thinking...“, she began, her tone indicating that whatever she had been thinking about had been of grave importance. She sat up beside him, and Benvolio followed her example and straightened up again to face her. “Soon, we will separate – you to ride into battle, I for a strange, hostile city. There is a chance that we'll never see each other again...”

He opened his mouth, ready to interrupt her, assure her that her fears were baseless, and they would, they _must_ meet again, but Rosaline did not let him speak.

“Which is why I thought we could ask the abbot at the monastery to marry us when we get there tomorrow. There is so much that is still uncertain about our future that of this one thing, I want to be certain. If we wait until after Verona is freed, my uncle or yours might interfere somehow. And if one or both of us do not make it through the coming trials...” she swallowed and broke off, eyes flitting about when it became too much of a challenge to keep meeting his. But they returned to his, slowly as if it scared her to keep holding his gaze, and yet she faced that fear as she had faced everything else.

“If any such thing happens, I want to have been with you, in spirit and body, even if only for one night.”

Benvolio could only stare at her, stunned speechless once again. But Rosaline was not finished yet.

“But there is something you should know before we get married.” She paused momentarily, apparently preparing to say something so difficult, Benvolio had to stop himself from anxiously imagining what it might be.

“Escalus asked me to marry him, the day after we returned to Verona. I came to him to plead your case, and he declared his feelings for me instead.”

Benvolio felt as if someone had upended a bucket of icy water over his head with no warning, his blood running cold at Rosaline's disclosure. The _Prince_ wanted her, enough to go above all political sense, even go against his own words just to take her as his wife – the very same man who had possessed Rosaline's heart from the start, and for a long time before Benvolio had ever even met her. How could he compete with such a man? How was it possible that she had even accepted his proposal last night, if the man she must prefer over him was waiting for her back at Verona?

It made no sense.

“I do not expect him to try and forbid our marriage if it is what we both want – after all, it was Escalus' idea in the first place, and it is in his and Verona's best interests if he not be seen favouring one of our houses over the other,” Rosaline continued her explanation while Benvolio still sat motionless with shock and dread. “But just in case... I do not want to give him an opportunity to object, and to take the choice out of our hands again.”

And now finally, his riotous thoughts went quiet as he understood one very important thing from Rosaline's words: That she may still, with some part of her heart, love the Prince – but she did not _trust_ him. How else could it be explained that she would not put it past their ruler to stop her from marrying a man of her own choice? Rosaline might not want to believe the Prince capable of such deviousness – but she did not trust him enough to rule it out entirely either.

She was right to do so, in his opinion: His impromptu audience with the Prince the day before the execution had made this sufficiently clear to Benvolio. Alone in his cell, he had puzzled over Prince Escalus' behaviour, wondered what could have driven him to recklessly meet a condemned murderer, alone and unguarded, just to demand that he disavow Rosaline's friendship and perjure himself. To save her reputation, ostentatiously – now Benvolio wondered if it had been to make things easier for the Prince in his own wooing. But that must mean the Prince considered him a rival for Rosaline's affections, had considered him such even back in Verona, and one not to be underestimated.

It meant that Prince Escalus had been _jealous_ : Because Rosaline Capulet wanted _him_ , Benvolio Montague, the unwanted heir with the sullied reputation, when she could have the ruler of all Verona.

He could not stop a broad grin from breaking out on his face.

“We'll get the abbot to marry us. Whenever and however you want, and no matter the cost.”

Rosaline seemed momentarily startled by this ardent declaration, then briefly relieved – and then, because she was too smart not to wonder about his sudden elation, immediately suspicious.

“Are you _gloating_?”

“I'm not... --”

He did not get around to defending himself before she interrupted him.

“If this is some stupid male contest over who gets to _claim_ me...”

She was working herself up, and Benvolio saw no other way but to fight dirty: He leaned forward and kissed her, stealing the beginning of what would no doubt turn into a formidable rant straight off her lips, and only drawing back when he felt her soften against him.

“No, Capulet – 'tis not a contest, nor it is even really about him. It is about the fact that you have made a most unlikely choice, and that choice means I get to be with you for the rest of my life. Am I not allowed to be happy about that?”

Her expression softened, a small smile replacing her earlier frown as she reached out to cup his cheek.

“The choice was not so unlikely as you think.”

A narcissistic part of him wanted to inquire as to why that was the case. What exactly had changed her opinion in his favour? And had it been a change of heart _for_ him, or simply _against_ the prince? But her face suggested she was not ready to divulge her reasons yet, and he told himself it mattered not why she had chosen him – it mattered that she _had_. And, he thought suddenly, she should know that the choice was still hers, even now.

“And yet, if there's a chance that you might want to change your mind, it might be best to return to Verona unwed.”

This made her eyes flash angrily once more – but only for a moment, before she took his hands, voice and gaze calm and steady.

“I will _not_ change my mind. I won't deny that I have been attached to Escalus once, loved him even. But that was years ago, when we were little more than children. The man who returned to take the throne turned out not to be the same man who left for Venice all those years ago. His actions these past weeks have made that more than clear to me.” She squeezed his hands where she was holding them, as if to make sure she had his full attention for her next words. “So I need you to trust me when I tell you that I have turned my back on all thoughts of a future with him. You of all people have always been the one person who respected my choices. Will you not trust that I have made the right one now, too?”

Trust, he realised: That was what it came down to. Benvolio may not be convinced that she might not be happier with the Prince; may hold on to the fear that he would turn out not to be enough after all – but Rosaline was sure of him, and that must be enough. _“I trust you”_ , she had told him before she had kissed him in Verona's dungeon, words that would forever be seared into his mind. Now, he would have to trust _her_ , no matter his own doubts.

He took her hands where they were holding his, lifting them to press a kiss into each palm – to show gratitude for her certainty, and seek forgiveness for his own insecurities.

“I can only promise to try.”

“Then that will be enough for now.”

***

  
They retreated to their tent soon after; or rather, Benvolio intended to let Rosaline retreat to the tent and make his own bed for the night outside of it to guard her. But Rosaline would hear none of it: She'd need him by her side, she insisted, or find herself terrified by every sound in the night.

He did not believe her for a second, knowing she was not so easily scared, and besides, her small smile made it obvious that her words were a ruse, and the intention behind it very clear.

Benvolio was glad of it, for in addition to the many times he had remembered their kisses last night, and imagined how those caresses might be repeated and expanded upon, he now had something else on his mind. True to his promise, he would try and believe her that she would not come to regret choosing him instead of the Prince – but just in case, he figured he might show her a little more of what pleasures their marriage could offer, build up some anticipation for them that might perhaps make her overlook his many shortcomings.

This seemed like a good, if slightly desperate, plan in theory – in practice, it was torture.

He was determined to show her that there was more than companionship to be enjoyed between them, but Benvolio had not been prepared for how readily Rosaline would surrender to his demonstration, and how hard it would be for him to resist the lure of it, made all the more powerful by knowing she was not one to surrender easily.

It did not take much time for Rosaline to return his kisses with as much fervour as she did everything else, to press herself ever closer against him and wordlessly ask for something she may not have been taught the words for, and _Lord_ , how he wanted to answer her wordless request. And though he had vowed to himself not to push her too far too soon, there could be no talk of pressuring her now, could there? There was no trace of fear or uncertainty in Rosaline's caresses, in the way she reacted to his, so surely giving in a little bit could not hurt – not when their wedding was decided, and would be carried out the next day if they could convince the abbot to do so.

With that excuse in mind, he allowed himself a small taste of that yet-forbidden fruit, to deepen the pressure of his kisses and grasp her waist to hold her against him… But having severely overestimated his restraint, Benvolio soon found himself crossing ever farther across the line of proper behaviour: Soon, he was no longer chastely lying by her side but draped half-across her, one leg wedged in between hers. His hand had gradually wandered up from her waist to the edge of her ribcage, his thumb just brushing the rounded underside of one breast but itching to travel further upwards, and his lips had begun to wander, and found that spot on her neck again, just below her jaw, that made her breath quicken and her hands tighten where she was holding on to his arms.

"Benvolio," she urged when he paid particular attention to that same spot, his name a breathy whisper in her throat and her hips rocking softly underneath him, seeking friction her body seemed to know to want on some primal human instinct.

Drawing back and turning back on his side was quite possibly the hardest thing he had ever done, especially when the retreat of his lips from her neck earned him a displeased little mewl.

"Rosaline, we need to stop. We are not actually married."

"But we will be, soon."

"Aye, and I look forward to it," he confirmed with a gentle pinch of her waist that made her squeal, and then harrumph indignantly. "But until then, I'll not take your maidenhood. If something prevents us from getting married tomorrow and I do not return from the campaign against Paris, you will be ruined."

"Only if word gets out – and the only way that could happen is if you let it. My reputation is entirely in your hands."

"Maybe, but other things are not. What if you get with child? It will be born out of wedlock, and you left destitute. If I have to leave you behind knowing I might never see you again, I want you to have all the protection my name and house may grant you."

"Is it really so likely that I'll conceive, after just one night?"

Lord give him strength, the woman meant to argue nature herself in her determination.

"It is possible."

"Whatever we do?" It took him a moment to understand her exact meaning, and Rosaline rephrased the question. "I mean, which part _exactly_ would…"

Benvolio screwed his eyes shut in distress. This was an awkward conversation to have under any circumstances, but to be having it with her pressed against him, fingertips dancing across his chest, legs tangled with his, was positively torturous.

"I would have to… spill inside of you."

"So if you do not..."

"It can still happen," Benvolio put a quick end to that line of thinking, which had left plenty of careless lovers with an unhappy surprise.

Perhaps, he thought, a distraction was the best way of getting out of this particular tight spot.

Getting to his knees, he began to push himself lower along her body and settle in between her legs.

"But there are things that do not come with such a risk, and are nonetheless enjoyable."

His hands found the bottom of her shift and hooked into the hem to start slowly dragging it up. In the quiet, he could hear her breathing turn quicker and shallower - with anticipation, he hoped, and since there came no protest, his hands went on their merry way until they reached the meeting of her thighs.

He paused, looking up at her. He could not make out much of her expression in the darkness, but he could see her fingers twisting and knotting around each other nervously, and he did not want her to experience this while afraid.

"This will not hurt, I promise." Reaching up with one hand, he gently extricated her corresponding one from its tangle to lace his fingers through hers.

"I trust you," was Rosaline's response, accompanied by a short squeeze of his hand, and only then did Benvolio continue - though not quite where he had ended.

Having identified a need to slow things down a little bit, Benvolio travelled down the length of her body once more to place his hand on one knee, his thumb brushing along the silky skin above it, and press a matching kiss to the same spot on her other leg. Another kiss followed, just a finger's breadth above, and another and another, and so he slowly made his way up the inside of her thighs until he once again reached the hem of that nightgown.

"May I?" An inquiry he had earlier, in his haste, forgotten.

"Yes," Rosaline acquiesced, sounding delightfully breathless.

Still, for the moment he stuck to his resolve of a leisurely pace and bypassed the place he longed to explore the most, instead letting his hands travel up along the side of her hips and lifting them to further push up that bothersome garment, bunch it up on her stomach, and kiss the soft plane of it - just above her belly-button, and then just below, and a little further down, until finally the first springy curls on her mound brushed his chin.

Rosaline sucked in a startled breath.

"Do you mean to…"

"Kiss you between your legs?" He finished for her. "Yes, I mean to do so, and thoroughly – unless you do not want me to."

"No, I… I ought to at least try and see if I like it."

Benvolio had to smile - of course she would at least _try_ something, no matter how intimidating.

"If you find that you dislike it, you can tell me so at any time, and I shall stop."

Rosaline nodded, and Benvolio returned his attention to the task before him. His free hand he now allowed to join in and brush gently along those curls, trace the folds hidden beneath them - dewy with arousal already, a fact that only served to heighten his own.

Then he finally lowered his mouth to taste her, and Rosaline made a noise he knew he would never forget: part surprised gasp, part blissful sigh - and all smug satisfaction.

She no doubt considered herself the winner of their earlier discussion, having talked him into participating in an act so clearly forbidden to them as of his point. But she could not imagine how much this loss was a reward, for surely there could be nothing sweeter than her taste, or the way that first surprised sigh gave way to more sounds of pleasure, rising in volume until he pointed out to her that there was only thin tent canvas to provide an illusion of privacy around them. He immediately regretted this courtesy when she bit down on her bottom lip to stifle her sounds instead - but it was perhaps for the best, or she would feel terribly embarrassed facing the soldiers the next morning.

But even without those delightful sounds, he knew that she was enjoying herself. He could tell from the hand she buried in his hair to keep him exactly where he was, from the way she turned even softer and slicker under him, and from the way she began to twitch and buck until he had to hold down her hips to keep her in place – and from that moment on, it was not long until he knew she had reached that crest he had been steadily driving her towards.

Her hand tightened on his scalp, enough to make him wonder if she'd rip out his hair. Her hips lifted off the bedroll, snapping up so hard his nose bumped almost painfully against her. And then she let out one more broken moan, stifled but still enough to make him feel like he had done more than adequate work introducing her to the pleasures of the flesh, and went still and slack under him.

He kept lapping at her gently for a few more moments, until the hand in his hair (whose grip had, thankfully, loosened by now) pushed him away instead of pulling him closer, and he sat up, carefully rolled down her shift again and laid back down next to her.

Rosaline was still lying prone on her back, eyes closed as she breathed in deeply, face blissfully smooth and tiny curls stuck to her temples with sweat. He pressed feathery kisses to her cheeks, her forehead, her temples, until she eventually opened her eyes again to smile at him, thoroughly pleased.

"That settles it: we are convincing the abbot to marry us tomorrow, and we shall not take no for an answer."

Benvolio had to laugh out loud at the remark – and for a moment, everything dark faded from his mind: the thought of riding into battle soon, the truth of his father's death, the memory of kneeling down on that scaffold… Nothing existed except for Rosaline, who was positively glowing; smiling at him in that private, mischievous way and running gentle hands through his hair and who wanted to _marry him_ tomorrow, with a fervour that allowed no further delay.

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

Rosaline Capulet married Benvolio Montague, not by royal decree but by choice - and that was not the only thing in which their wedding differed from the way it had been thought up by the leading men of Verona.

For one thing, there was no one present save for the Abbot and one of the monks to bear witness, whereas originally the plan had been for them to declare their love (fake though it was) before all of Verona. Rosaline would have been clad in some resplendent gown, with flowers and jewels to adorn her, and show off the wealth of House Capulet. Now, she wore the same dusty dress she had travelled in all day, and her flowers were simple poppies and cornflowers, plucked by a peasant girl from the side of the road. Benvolio had spotted the little girl and convinced her to part with her treasure, and now the humble bouquet served as Rosaline's sole adornment. They were the only flowers present in the church, instead of the magnificent bouquets her uncle might have ordered for the Duomo on their wedding day in Verona. And instead of a sea of candles like the one Juliet and Rosaline had painstakingly lit for her cousin's clandestine wedding, there were only the same humble white candles the monks made do with for their own services.

In short, nothing was as she, or rather, Livia, had pictured it in an attempt to cheer up her sister (the logic being that if Rosaline did not like her husband, at the very least she might enjoy the lavish wedding), and Rosaline could not be happier about this fact: Their wedding was about her and Benvolio and no one else, and certainly not about Verona.

When she repeated the vows the Abbot recited for them, her voice echoed in the lofty chapel, and Rosaline sent a grateful prayer along as it drifted heavenward: Maybe after all the pain and loss, God had remembered her, and had sent someone to make it easier to bear, and possible to imagine being happy again.

Or maybe she was wrong; and this was not God's plan at all but a youthful flight of fancy like the wedding that had started all this. They were certainly hurtling along the path to marriage at breakneck speed, for even though it felt like years had passed, they had only known each other for a few weeks, had been friends for even less time, and lovers only for a blink of an eye.

But then, it had taken Juliet a mere matter of days to lose her heart, her maidenhood, and her life in short succession. If hours were all that was left to Benvolio and her, Rosaline would be greedy, and make as much of those sparse hours as she could.

God's plan be damned – this was _her_ life, and she was done letting others take charge of it.

 

***

 There was no feast after the wedding ceremony, no music and speeches and gifts. They had arrived late in the afternoon, and by the time the Abbot had been convinced to wed them as well as offer shelter for the night, it was almost time for the early-rising monks' evening prayer. Once their vows had been said and they pronounced husband and wife, the Abbot merely wished them a good rest, and they returned to the monks' cell they had been allotted for the night.

Which meant that all of a sudden, Rosaline found herself standing in the small, spartan cell, clutching her wilting batch of flowers and looking at the man who was now indeed by law her husband – or he would be, after one more step to validate their marriage.

It was difficult not to be anxious now, uncertain of what was to come despite the eagerness she had felt last night. As she grew from girl to young woman, and particularly in preparation of her own planned wedding, Rosaline had received some vague instructions for how a young lady ought to behave on her wedding night: That her first duty was to make sure her husband found her pleasing enough to consummate the marriage, regardless of her own feelings towards him. That she would have to brace herself for a certain amount of pain, but bear it quietly and gracefully in order to conceive an heir and secure her new house's future. That, if she was lucky and her husband a caring man, she might enjoy herself – but she must not be too candid in showing her enjoyment, or risk casting doubt on her chastity.

These instructions had been less than reassuring – but luckily, she had other knowledge by which to judge what was to come. For one thing, there were the things Juliet had told her (once Rosaline had finished chastising her cousin's rash decision to secretly wed and bed a Montague), of pleasure and beauty and love that were to be found during the wedding night; a blissful smile on her face as she spoke of it.

For another, there was the memory of last night: Benvolio and her had not actually lain with each other, but what he had done to her body instead certainly fell into the same realm, and made her hopeful that he would approach their wedding night in the same manner, and with the same skill and enthusiasm. Those last two days, he had been nothing but patient and gentle with her, always looking for signs that she was enjoying herself, and never asking for more than what she seemed prepared to give. Not to mention, as last night had shown, that the fact of his vastly superior experience in such matters might just turn out in her favour, for he at least seemed to know what he was doing.

Unfortunately, the fact of his experience now led her to thoughts of the women he had gathered that experience with; women who were no doubt beautiful and seductive and experienced in the ways of pleasuring a man, and the thought of being compared with such women, once it occurred to her, only heightened her nervousness.

It did not particularly help that Rosaline was sure she must be the least presentable bride to ever stand before the altar. They had ridden hard throughout the sweltering day, but the Abbot's insistence to perform the ceremony before his evening prayer, had left them with just enough time to wash off the dust and sweat of the road. As she had hastened to smooth down her dress and redo her braid, vanity had made Rosaline cringe at the thought of getting married like this, but she had reassured herself with the thought that, so far, it seemed not to have mattered to Benvolio what she wore and what she looked like: The first time they had kissed, she had been in a beautiful dress and rich cloak and he in torn, bloodstained clothes, whereas last night he had kissed her just as sweetly in her simple shift.

But that was little comfort now, as she felt strangely shy, and certainly ill-prepared to suddenly find herself a married woman. She did not regret the marriage, nor her insistence to rush it – but as eager as she had been last night for _this_ particular part of holy matrimony, now that it was upon them, she had no idea what to do. But do _something_ she must, for Rosaline had no intention to adapt that passiveness she had been told would be expected of her, and risk making Benvolio think he had married a woman completely devoid of passion.

Determinedly, she took a step forward, laid her hands on his shoulders, and leaned in to kiss him. She had done that before, after all, and quite successfully in Rosaline's opinion, and it did not take long for her to let herself fall into it again. Benvolio joined her gentle rhythm but otherwise remained still as she let her hands begin to wander, along his shoulder and down his back and up his chest to the side of his neck, marvelling at the contrast between bristly beard and soft, wavy hair, and delighting in his subtle shiver when she raked her fingers through it.

But she had more territory to explore, more things to learn about, and so she let her hands slide down along his chest to find the hem of his shirt. When she drew it up, her fingertips brushed the skin beneath, and she felt a muscle twitch underneath the pads of her fingers, felt his chest heave with a hitched breath. She could feel his eyes on her when she pulled up his shirt, until he helped her by pulling it over his head himself and thus leave her free to repeat all her former motions once again, just to be thorough in cataloguing her impressions.

And there was much to catalogue indeed: The feeling of his skin under her hands, surprisingly soft given the firmness of the muscle beneath; the clean smell of the soap they had both been given to wash with and the scent of leather and metal from his armour lingering beneath it; the way he reacted to her touches, with a low hum in his throat, a sharp intake of breath or a soft exhale of it across her shoulder. She took her time, thorough both for thoroughness' sake and because for every reaction of his, there was a corresponding one from her own body: Goosebumps when his breath fanned across her clavicle, a sigh when he distracted her by nipping at her neck with his lips, a clench of her insides when she scraped her nails along the back of his neck and he let out a small moan.

The sound, and the enjoyment of her touch it indicated, made her bold.

“What you did to me last night – is that something I can do to you as well?“

Again, his breath stuttered. “Yes, after a fashion – but if you do it now, our wedding night will be a short one.“

This was new and puzzling information, as none of the advice Rosaline had received had included such details on the male physique and its limitations. It could not but heighten her curiosity.

“But I can touch you?”

“As much as you want.”

Oh, Rosaline wanted, though she knew not how exactly to proceed. She decided to proceed carefully, first cupping him through his breeches where she had felt him press against her ever more insistently. He groaned at the contact, hips tilting forward to push himself into her palm, which she took as permission to unlace his breeches and explore further.

But, as it quickly became clear to her, this was very far from familiar terrain now, and she suddenly felt clumsy and silly, letting her hands idle about with no more than a vague idea of what it was they were meant to do. Once again, that fear of making a fool of herself reared its head, not as thoroughly defeated as she had hoped.

Worse still, Benvolio seemed to confirm her fear when he suddenly grasped her wrists to still her hands.

“I'm sorry. I do not know how...”, she babbled, increasingly insecure, and then suddenly irritated at her own ignorance. How was she expected to do any of this to his satisfaction without proper instruction? She'd have to swallow her pride and ask for help. “You'll have to show me how to please you.”

Oddly, this made him laugh.

“You _are_ pleasing me, Capulet – but I would still like for you to give me a moment and let me devote some attention to you before I run the risk of cutting short our wedding night. _That_ is how much you please me, already, just by wanting to be with me.”

The compliment, enormous though it was, still did not quite make it through the haze of her worry and confusion.

“But I want to do more than just _be_ _here_. I want to make sure that you...” _that you don't realize how little I know, and find me lacking as a wife_ , her mind ended the sentence, but she could not bring herself to speak that fear out loud. Rosaline had never lacked courage nor confidence – so why was she suddenly so insecure?

Feeling even more silly, she lowered her gaze dejectedly – only to find it guided back up to his by a gentle hand on her chin.

“Rosaline, what is it that troubles you? Why won't you believe that I want to be with you, and that everything you've done so far has been more than enjoyable?”

“I know you've been with other women,” she blurted out. His face darkened the slightest bit. “Women who were no doubt much better educated than I am, and who would not have to resort to just... _groping_ _about_.”

He sighed, but made no attempt to evade her question.

“Yes, I have been with other women. I won't deny it. In fact, I have been worried that you might be repulsed how much I have... sullied my reputation, in the past.”

Rosaline quickly shook her head – making _him_ worry as well was not what she had intended at all.

But Benvolio continued, undeterred.

“But you know what you are and those women were not?”

Another shake of her head, her breath trapped in her chest as she waited for the answer to his rhetorical question.

“You're my _wife_. My _friend_. The woman I'm going to spend the rest of my life with. I promise you that this means there won't ever be any other woman again – and I'm sure that we'll have plenty of time for you to learn whatever you think you need to learn. For now, all I want you to do is enjoy yourself. Do whatever you feel like doing, and let me take the lead when you don't know how to proceed.”

He dipped his head to kiss her, letting his hands trail up and down her arms in a way that seemed to make the ground feel steadier under her feet, and only drawing back when he felt her tension ease a little.

“Besides, people have figured these things out for themselves since the dawn of time. There's really not all that much _to_ know. I myself am hardly a prodigy.”

This was quite the unconventional view of human history, Rosaline thought with amusement, and her worry began to dissipate enough to deliver a teasing reply.

“Am I expected to stroke your ego now by claiming that you are?”

Benvolio guffawed.

“I would not object if you did.”

“Of course you would not. But you'd be insufferable about it.” This earned her another laugh, bright teeth in the candle-dark room and a rumble under her hand where she had laid it on his chest, and more of her worry disappeared, leaving room behind for a splash of boldness. “Besides, you'd have to prove it first.”

“I'd be happy to”, was Benvolio's smiling response, and now Rosaline felt a little embarrassed about her jitters.

This was not some stranger standing before her, nor the unwanted shackle of a betrothed she had considered him not too long ago. This was _Benvolio_ , her friend, her partner in the fight for their home. Who had bared his soul before her and listened when she spoke of her own fear and grief in turn. Who had proven equally capable of providing comfort on a bad night and pleasure on a better one. Who had never held any of her faults against her, and would not start now by blaming her for her own ignorance, or compare her unfavourably to other women – in fact, the way he looked at her now seemed to suggest that she was the only person in the world, and the only woman in his thoughts no matter how inexperienced she may be, how rumpled her dress or how artlessly coiffed her hair.

There was nothing to be afraid of, and least of all that she would fall short of Benvolio's expectations.

The realisation finally made her calm; ready to deliver herself into his hands – where, just like last night, she received excellent treatment.

Just like last night, his hands and lips worked in tandem, alternately uncovering new regions of her body and then immediately covering them again with kisses. The cooperation went so smoothly that Rosaline was out of her dress with her braid undone before she even had time to feel shy, and from there, it didn't take all that much courage to unlace her shift and let it pool at her feet, leaving her bare before him. The startled awe on his face, the way his motions froze for a moment, were enough to reassure her there was no need for embarrassment any longer – and then he laid his hands on her bare skin, sliding them around her waist to the small of her back to pull her close, and the heat in his gaze made her blood sing with anticipation.

“You are truly beautiful.”

The words were all the more touching for their simplicity: She was sure he could have mustered the charm to flatter her more elegantly, with flowery words and grand analogies, and the fact that he did not made her all the more sure of his earnestness. To hear him confirm, out loud, what his eyes had seemed to hint at before was so immense she had to scramble for something to reply, or risk being stunned into silence altogether.

“A beautiful _harpy_? Who ever heard of such a thing!”

Benvolio smiled wistfully.

“You will never let me forget I called you that, will you?”

“Never!”, she proclaimed – but try as she might to keep a straight face, her lips twitched with amusement. The reminder of just how much things had changed since he had described her so unfavourably seemed to make this moment all the more precious.

Now that he had taken care to dispel her fears, it was once again easy to smile and joke with him; easy to return to kissing while Benvolio mimicked her earlier movements with _his_ hands on _her_ body for a change, exploring curves and dips with as much thoroughness as she had, and evoking similar responses: shivers and sighs and a warmth that spread gradually from every place he touched her, and turned into a fiery blaze when one of his hands slipped in between her legs to touch her as intimately as he had last night, and evoke the same pleasure.

It was easy, too, to let him pull her to the bed and lay them both down, let him settle over her and add to his touches the promising friction of his hips rocking against hers. She fell in with his rhythm with no conscious effort, interrupted only when he sat up to struggle out of his breeches. When he settled between her legs again, she could feel him hard against her, slowly sliding along the outside of her sex in a mimicry of what was to come. She gasped at the contact and rocked back against him, eager to experience the real thing – so eager, in fact, that she even declined an offer to repeat last night's attentions.

"I want to be with you, the way we could not be last night."

A rousing kiss was his reply, more vigorous than the ones before but just as pleasant. And when he asked if she was sure that she felt ready, it was easy to answer in the same way she had answered last night:

“I am. I trust you.”

And just like the times she had said it before, it was the truth – and a truth that made the next part, the part she had heard such conflicting things about, easy as well.

There was the expected pain; a sharp, stinging pressure as her body slowly grew accustomed to his, much like Juliet had described when they had discussed her cousin's wedding night. But the pain was soon overcome, chased away by Benvolio's drugging kisses and murmured reassurances, and what replaced it was… unlike anything Rosaline could have ever imagined; different from the delights he had bestowed upon her the night before but no less intense.

She understood then why people would fall prey to the sin of lust; understood why their cousins had defied the will of their parents to be together. There was such power in wanting, in _needing_ to be with someone with every fibre of one's being – and something no less than holy in seeing that need met. Surely the Lord must approve of this whether or not a priest had approved it beforehand, or he would not have allowed his creatures to feel it in the first place.

 

***

Later, they lay tangled up in each other on the narrow bed, the monastery's thick walls shielding them from the day's lingering heat, and Rosaline laid her head on Benvolio's chest to listen to the heartbeat plodding steadily inside it. The thought of how close that heart had come to stopping its beat forever seemed absurd – knowing now what a good heart it was, she could not comprehend how anyone would want it to stop beating. She'd have to make sure no one would even come close to hurting him again, she vowed to herself. After all, men were expected to protect their wives, but she saw no reason why it could not be done the other way around too.

Benvolio interrupted her musings, his voice cutting through the lazy silence.

"I still wish I could accompany you to Mantua."

His thoughts must have taken a very similar course to hers, lingering on the dangers ahead of them and the fact of how little they could do to protect themselves against those dangers. But she knew that would not stop him from trying to protect her anyway, as he always had – before he had even cared for her, she marvelled, and remembered Truchio's groping hands in an alleyway and Benvolio pulling her to safety when the marketplace erupted in flames around them and his frantic expression as he knelt next to a dead body and still had nothing better to do than to tell _her_ to run. He had always been like this – but as much as she appreciated it, right now she did not want him to worry, and even less to be reminded of the morning's separation.

Perhaps some teasing would distract them both.

"I have a feeling I'll have a much easier time sneaking in as a servant alone than with you by my side, a little Lordling who has never worked a day in his life."

This observation earned her a muttered "Minx!", but otherwise failed to lift the cloud of worry.

"Before it comes to that, you'll have to get to Mantua in the first place, and I hate the thought of you alone on the road."

"I will hardly be _alone_ on the way – I'll be perfectly safe travelling with the Abbey's market wain, comfortable even." This had been part of their earlier agreement with the Abbot: The promise of a generous donation of Montague money to the abbey's coffers had not only bought them their wedding, but an offer to let Rosaline travel to Mantua with a group of monks on their weekly trip to the market.

"And what of the way back? What of sneaking around in Mantua, a city we're at war with?" He seemed to be getting ever more agitated, and Rosaline knew not whether to be amused, exasperated, or touched by his concern for her safety.

"I'll make sure not to let anyone know of my origin then. And on the way back, I'll be with my sister."

"So you will be _two_ unprotected women alone on the road."

"We will not be on the road very long, thanks to your planning – after all, the nunnery you spotted on the Doge's map is no more than half a day's walk away from the city gates."

They had been over this at least a dozen times since departing Venice. Benvolio had made the Abbot swear a holy oath that Rosaline would not only be allowed to travel to Mantua with the monks but that he would also write a note for the nunnery's Abbess that would hopefully convince her to offer them shelter until they had word of Verona. Over and over again, he had made Rosaline repeat the Abbot's description of how to get from Mantua to the nunnery. And yet, he still seemed unwilling to accept their separation, and petulantly continued to rail against the General's orders.

"I still think the General should have let me go with you. I hardly see how much of a difference my sword will make now – I've told the General all I can to aid his campaign."

"It must be as you suspected: He wants proof that Verona will not let others fight her battles." She propped herself up on her elbow to look at him. "Who knows - you might be the very man to turn the tide of battle, and return to Verona a hero."

"I care not one whit for Verona's opinion of me, nor for being a hero." He reached up to cup her face. "I care about seeing you and your sister safe."

He had told her the same thing in different words about a dozen times by now, and still it never failed to make her breath catch: Benvolio wanted nothing more than to see her safe and happy, and would do whatever he could to achieve this goal. The fact that he had now included her sister in his concerns as well made her feel so full of love for him that her chest felt too small to contain it all.

"I know you do," she replied, pressing a firm, purposeful kiss to his lips. "But you'll have to trust in me to make my own way back this time."

He harrumphed, not quite satisfied it seemed – and then suddenly sat bolt upright, face lighting up as he jumped to his feet. Rosaline, who had plopped back on the bed rather gracelessly, watched as he walked over to the stool near the door where his clothes and weapons were stored (though she could not for the life of her recall when he had placed them there). She got momentarily distracted by the sight of his toned back, rump, and legs as he stood rooting around in the pile on the stool, and was accordingly startled when he whirled around suddenly, holding aloft a dagger and letting out a triumphant "Ha!".

Rosaline could not help herself: at the sight of him, standing naked as the day he was born in the middle of their room and triumphantly brandishing a weapon, a small giggle escaped her, and another, and soon she was completely dissolved in laughter.

Benvolio watched for a moment in bewilderment.

"Is this what marrying you gets me, disrespect and ridicule?", he grumbled, though his lips were twitching, and Rosaline felt certain that they would not see their first fight as a married couple just yet.

"Only if you behave ridiculously. What _are_ you doing?"

"I meant to give you my dagger, so you might have some measure of security."

Like so many things he did, this gesture was as sweet as it was sensible, and Rosaline was quickly finding that this was a combination she could not but feel touched by.

"You could hide it in your pockets," he went on to explain as he returned the dagger in question to its leather sheath, "or the folds of your skirt, or even tie the sheath to your leg by its strings, and have it at hand should anyone try and attack you."

"And I shall. Now will you stop dashing around like a madman and come back to bed?"

He hesitated for a moment, perhaps intending to expand on his lecture on proper dagger storage, and Rosaline sat up and leaned forward, reaching out to him with her open hand. The movement caused the blanket that had covered her to slip, and his eyes immediately slid down to the expanse of skin now exposed – which, she calculated, was likely to have just as much of an effect as her words. She was right: In a heartbeat he was back by their bed, sitting down on the edge to grasp her shoulders.

"Promise me you'll take the dagger and keep it within easy reach at all times. And should anyone threaten you, do not hesitate to use it."

"I promise."

The words had barely left her mouth when he was kissing her, with a heat and vigour that had been much more subdued during their earlier consummation, and which she found more than a little intriguing.

It lent an urgency to his movements that she had only seen brief glimpses of during their previous encounters, before he had struggled to rein himself in. But apparently, the thought of their impending separation made that control slip, and Rosaline could understand this all too well – welcomed it even, for every frantic kiss, every inch he pulled her closer against him, every harsh breath in her ear told her how much he wanted her, and how the thought of losing her unsettled him.

It took hardly any time before she felt that newfound heat stir inside her again and her own motions became as frantic as his – but when he pushed apart her legs to settle in between them, she still flinched at the momentary unease, the pull of a soreness between her thighs and across her hips which she was sure she would feel even more acutely tomorrow.

But tonight, she wanted to feel him, and when he drew back with a worried expression, she shook her head and kept holding him against her.

"Keep going."

"Are you sure? I would hate to hurt you."

"You won't, and I am. If we should only have one night, I want to make the most of it."

And with these words, shameless but painfully true, she arched up to meet his lips and he met her halfway, swallowing her small groan when he pushed inside of her. Just as he had before, Benvolio took things slow, pausing ever so often to rain kisses down upon her and slipping a hand in between their bodies to distract her from the initial ache with delicious pleasure. It took her much less time to adjust now, so that soon she was rocking against him, urging him to go deeper - and when he finally did, he was not the only one with the air of a madman about him.

But if this was madness, she'd happily say goodbye to rational thought.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, the wedding night doesn't feel quite as epic as it should for a story of this kind – but it does feel kind of fitting, for them: Not romantic perfection, but sweetness and jokes and communication when there's a problem. So I'm not sure it is exactly what people expected, but I still like it.  
> Also, shout-out to Carrieeve, who talked me through all the problems I had with this chapter. You're a gem!  
> Also, I know the style in this fic is a little purple prose - but goddamn is it fun to write! One thing I've noticed that is tricky about writing sex scenes in historical settings, however, is the question of what characters would know about sex, especially young and sheltered female characters, and how they would think and talk about it.


	13. Chapter 13

Rosaline awoke at dawn to find Benvolio already out of bed, sitting by the small wooden table and scribbling away, his quill scratching across the parchment.

"Did you intend to sneak away and leave only a letter behind? Because I think that would be considered very bad etiquette the morning after one's wedding."

Benvolio laughed quietly and got up to return to the bed, where he stooped down to kiss her, slow and languorous. When he finally drew back again, Rosaline bit down on a noise of protest – this was the kind of kiss that seemed to promise more, and she felt rather betrayed that more was not forthcoming.

Of course, it was only sensible not to linger too long, for they both had an important trip ahead of them, and would do well to get an early start. But just this little bit of contact had, together with her vivid memories of the night before, been enough to stir Rosaline's blood again, and reawakened that overwhelming hunger for her new husband's touch.

"How could I ever do such a thing?" Benvolio replied softly to her earlier accusation, which Rosaline had half forgotten about by now. "No, I would love to draw out our time together as long as possible. But I need to leave soon, and there was something important I still had to take care of. I was just..."

Not one to sit idle while she listened, Rosaline got out of bed to get dressed, only remembering her state of undress when she was already standing before Benvolio and his speech drifted off as he looked at her. But it was this very look that kept her from scrambling to cover herself, and instead made her feel more beautiful than she ever had in the most resplendent dress. That feeling only intensified when Benvolio stepped closer, fingertips dancing across the sensitive skin of her stomach and making her gasp.

“I despise myself for saying this, but I really wish you would put some clothes on.” 

“Does the sight of me not please you?” The naiveté in Rosaline's voice was all pretend, for she had made quick progress at learning more about the subject of seduction, and knew well that he was pleased enough – even before he growled and leaned in to steal a kiss from her lips. 

“Oh, more than you could possibly imagine.” 

The words, and the raspy voice with which they were uttered, erased what little bashfulness had lingered until this morning. Soon, Rosaline had her arms slung around her new husband's neck to turn one quick kiss into quite a few more, sighing with relief when he touched her again, his hands running down her back to cup the curve of her bottom and bring her even closer. Desire spiked inside her at the touch, and only flamed higher when she felt that his own desire was making itself known as well, in the way she had learned about last night.

It would be all too easy to lose herself in that same passion again, to forget about the separation and trials ahead of them. But the blissful moment ended all too soon when Benvolio pulled back, breathing harshly.

"For the love of God Capulet, you need to get dressed now, or I'll never return to the General's troops."

With that, he unlaced her hands from his neck and stepped back, before he seemed to change his mind and leaned in for one more kiss.

"Though it may be worth it just to spend more time with you."

Despite those words, he resisted the temptation and turned back to his writing – but his reluctance to do so helped Rosaline not to feel rejected but to look forward instead to the next time they could be together like this. God willing, the opportunity would arise soon, and they would have peace and quiet and a whole lot more time for each other. A week at least, she thought with an amused smile, and a voice that sounded like the Nurse chastised her for her greedy wantonness. But what could there be to chastise her about? The man who inspired such licentiousness was her husband before God, so lying with him meant fulfilling that very duty she had been informed would be hers as a married woman. The fact that she happened to enjoy this duty a great deal could hardly be held against her, could it? Benvolio certainly did not fault her for it: His delight whenever she showed her enjoyment was proof enough.

Feeling more than a little smug at how well she had managed to make things turn out for herself, Rosaline made quick work of washing and dressing, slipping on her shift and the modest dress that went with it as she turned to watch Benvolio.

He had sat down at the table once more and returned his attention to the mysterious piece of writing before him, signing it with a flourish before he carefully blotted and dried the wet ink. Whatever he was writing, it must be of great importance.

Tying the laces on the sides of her dress, one chosen for practicality and thus easy to put on without help, was a simple enough task that she could do it while joining him at the table, intent on finally finding out what kept him so occupied. But when she looked down on the table to read the first line written on the parchment, Rosaline reeled back in shock.

" _Last Will and Testament_?" She stared at him in horror. "Are you determined to goad fate into ending your life?"

Benvolio looked up. "I am determined to see _your future_ secured, and your sister's too."

Rosaline raised an incredulous eyebrow.

"And this could wait no longer?" He could, after all, have spent this valuable time tucked into bed beside her, contemplating the pleasures of last night instead of the dangers that lay ahead.

"No, it could not." He folded the now-dry paper and handed it to her. "We'll show this to the Abbot before I leave and ask him to bear witness that I wrote and signed it, and then I want you to hold on to it, together with our marriage license. Should you return to Venice to find me dead, you will show this to the Prince, and tell him to make my uncle publicly accept you as a member of House Montague, and to take care of you accordingly."

He pointed at another letter, this one already folded shut and sealed with a simple blob of wax for lack of anything bearing the seal of Benvolio's house.

"This letter detailing my aunt and uncle's confessions will stay with the Abbot. If my uncle refuses to help you, send word to the Abbot and he will have this letter delivered to the Prince. My uncle will have a choice then: heed my last will and provide for you, or have all of Verona find out how he came to be Lord Montague."

Rosaline was speechless: Benvolio must have thought about this at great length to come up with a plan to secure her against every possible outcome, every attempt by his uncle to refuse her as a member of his house. Even more importantly, she remembered how just a few days ago, he had declined going up against his uncle for his own claim at justice and his share of the wealth and power of House Montague – but now, for _her_ , he was willing to force his uncle's hand even from beyond the grave, should it come to that. With a shudder, she hoped it never would.

"You know, my sister once asked me if you were kind, and I knew not what to answer.” She reached out to cup his face, fingertips running along his cheek, and watched his eyes flutter at the caress – still so intimate despite all the other caresses they had exchanged last night. “Now I can tell her that you are."

Benvolio looked almost bashful at this proclamation, and she remembered how pleased he had sounded the first time she had called him _kind_.

"This isn't kindness,” he protested, turning his head to press a kiss into her palm. “To see you taken care of is my first duty as your husband; but more importantly, it is my wish as the man who loves you."

Now it was Rosaline who blinked with confusion – but even as her mind stumbled over the words, her heart seemed to warm in response. In the days leading up to their wedding, and the hours following it, they had assured each other that they enjoyed being together, that they both wanted to see the other safe and happy, and that they wanted to do so for a long time to come. But with the exception of one use of the word in their vows, neither of them had dared to speak of _love_ yet, perhaps aware that the word was too fragile, and too often used in vain.

But not in this instance, Rosaline realized with sudden clarity, heart speeding up to an excited canter: In this instance, the word was the right one, audacious though it seemed.

"I am grateful for your determination to see my future secured. But you are only almost correct about your new duties: Your _first_ duty must be to do whatever you can to return to the woman who loves _you_."

It took a moment for her choice of words to register, but Rosaline could see in Benvolio's face when it did: His eyes widened, a glimmer in them that spoke of hope and fear in equal parts. She had seen that expression before, back in Verona's dungeon, when he had tried to send her off to be happy with Escalus and she had chosen to stay instead. Her actions then had no doubt surprised him as much as they did her - but surely _now_ things were different? Surely, after everything they had been through together, he did not still have trouble believing that she genuinely loved him?

But just in case he did, she told herself, she would have to remind him as often as possible.

She stepped closer to press a firm kiss to his lips, just to emphasize her words.

"So you had better return to me in one piece, and soon."

"I will", he replied somewhat shortly – but the kiss immediately following his promise more than made up for its shortness.

“Good.”

There was nothing more to say afterwards, and no more time to waste if Benvolio wanted to show the General that his trust was warranted.

After a quick stop at the Abbot's study to have him sign and store the important documents Benvolio had written, Rosaline saw him to the monastery gate. With the monks readying their wain nearby, they lacked the privacy for another drawn-out goodbye, and so they kept their kiss brief, painfully so. Rosaline could only hope it would not be their last one.

She suddenly remembered the stories Livia used to beg her to tell, over and over again: Of brave knights and their beautiful ladies, waving dainty handkerchiefs in goodbye as they sent off their lovers to wage noble wars while the ladies would wait, faithfully keeping watch for their return from the castle's highest parapet. As young girls, they had thought it the height of romance – but now, Rosaline would rather her life resembled those tales a little less.

In any case, there was one difference: She had no time to waste waiting around on top of castle walls.

She looked after Benvolio just long enough to see the shape of him get swallowed up by a cloud of dust, then she turned to join the monks as they set out for Mantua. She had her own battle to wage – but she did hope their reunion would be as blissful as the reunions had been in her and Livia's stories.

***

 

Riding on the back of the abbey's market wain, Rosaline made it to Mantua in good time, if perhaps a little slower than she would have been on horseback. Benvolio would have preferred her to take her horse so as to allow for a quick escape should anything go wrong, but that would have meant finding a stable for it first, since she could hardly ride up to the palace with a fine horse and then claim to be a servant in search of work. So the horse had stayed behind at the monastery, to be picked up again at some point.

Once they arrived at the market, Rosaline took her leave from her travelling companions and made for the Count's Palace, a building so big and imposing it was easy to find with no more than a rudimentary description from the monks. Apparently, Count Paris had lived like royalty even before he had declared himself a Prince and decided he could simply take whatever he wanted.

Well, she was here to teach him he could not.

A letter of recommendation from Helena and a well-delivered story of personal tragedy (a husband lost at sea, a house burned down, and no family to turn to for help) opened the doors of the palace to her, and soon Rosaline was in employment as a chamber maid. Luckily for her, several kitchen staff had recently left or fallen ill, and so the housekeeper was all too happy to have a pair of hands helping out.

Rosaline in turn made the most of her stay from the start, even if it meant banning all thoughts of last night. She could practically still feel Benvolio's touch, the longing in his kiss when they said goodbye. Not for long, he had promised her, and she could only hope they would both be able to keep that promise – and in order to do so, she must focus on her task, and not let herself get distracted.

So she focused, making sure to listen well when instructed, and to ask plenty of questions to mask the few she slipped in about the palace layout and the Count's chambers. Her innocent questioning soon yielded results: not only was she told all about how to access the system of servants' corridors hidden behind tapestry doors in the lords' and ladies' chambers, and learned where linen closets were waiting along those corridors in regular intervals, but she also heard plenty of stories of the mysterious woman locked away at the heart of the palace: The Count's young wife, wed to him for less than a month – and a native of the very city he was now gone to war against.

As relieved as she was to finally receive a sign of life from her sister, even if it was from strangers' mouths, Rosaline found her heart bleeding at their tales: How the young bride was sat by her window all day, crying, begging the servants to let her send a letter to her family – but this was a wish they had been explicitly forbidden to grant. After hearing this, the "Princess" had refused to eat for several days, until finally a plate of sweet treats had broken her resolve. This little detail cheered Rosaline up at last: For all she had gone through, in some ways her sister had remained unchanged, and her sweet tooth had made it through their recent troubles intact.

She could not undo what her sister had suffered, but she could save her now.

Being used to hard work, and newly trained in the arts of intrigue and manipulation at the Venetian court, it took Rosaline very little time to gain the trust of the senior retainers. Within a day, the old housekeeper who had hired her sent her to the Count's quarters, trailing along after another housemaid to change the linens.

Much as she longed to, she was not able to speak to her sister that day – but given that she was not alone when she entered the room Livia was kept in, this was probably for the best.

Livia sat at the window with her back to the door, never even bothering to turn when they entered, and Rosaline's heart ached at seeing her so downtrodden - but for the sake of her disguise, it was perhaps best this way, for Livia might have become excited at the sight of her sister and given her away.

Instead, Rosaline made use of the time spent in Livia's prison to count the number of doors (two, counting the tapestry door by which she and her fellow maid had entered), take note of how well they were locked and guarded (the shadow of two pairs of boots between the door and the threshold suggested two guards outside the door to the antechamber), and remembered where the housekeeper kept the key.

She exited the room without so much as a word in her sister's direction - but for now, simply seeing her safe and within reach was enough.

There was plenty of work to be done, and by the time Rosaline went to sleep in the bed that had been allotted to her in the servants' quarters, she was thoroughly exhausted. Still, before she fell asleep, she allowed herself what she had refrained from all day, and thought of Benvolio – though not without being momentarily, fondly annoyed at the fact that he had managed to occupy her mind so thoroughly.

He must have rejoined the General's troops by now, and was perhaps going to sleep as well, early so as to be rested for the morning's attack. The mere thought of it sent a bolt of fear through her, and she shivered despite the heat in her attic room. Rosaline had luckily never experienced Verona at outright war, let alone under siege – the worst she had seen were the escalating fights between her house and Benvolio's. But a battle, side by side with seasoned soldiers and ruthless mercenaries, must be something else than a mere brawl in the streets, and something Benvolio had not been tested at, no matter how quick his blade. So terrifying was the thought, despite all the dangers they had been through, that Rosaline quickly folded her hands under her chin and prayed. 

She had prayed for his life before and the Lord had heard her – perhaps he would do the same a second time. 

***

 

The next day, Rosaline was in luck: With several housemaids and kitchen staff sick, the housekeeper was plenty busy, and Rosaline was sent alone to bring Livia her breakfast. She had prepared for such an eventuality already: late last night, she had snatched a brown cloak from the laundry and hidden it in one of the linen closets along the corridor to the bedrooms, which Livia might wear to conceal herself once they made their way out of the palace. Earlier, during a brief introductory trip through her sphere of work at the palace, she had identified the easiest way out of that very palace as well: A small door that led from the kitchen to an alley behind the palace – a convenient way to get provisions delivered straight to the pantry without needing to carry them through the stately courtyards. For convenience, the key to this door was kept right next to it, which Rosaline had also found out when she had explored the palace's downstairs rooms the night before. If they were lucky, they could slip out through the kitchen in an unobserved moment.

Her plan still relied very much on dumb luck, Rosaline knew. But she had the bare necessities: access to her sister, a rudimentary disguise, and a way out of the palace.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Rosaline unlocked the tapestry door to her sister's prison. She may look forward to being reunited with her sister, but she needed to keep her wits about her, and focus only on escaping the palace before anything else.

Just like the day before, Livia sat by the window, her back turned to the door, and Rosaline quickly set down the breakfast tray on the nearest table and closed the tapestry door before addressing her.

“Livia,” she began, and could hear her sister's head lift slightly in recognition of her voice even before she turned around. “Stay quiet. Don't say anything. Just come with me.”

Of course, with the customary stubbornness of a younger sibling, Livia did the opposite.

She gasped, turned around, and exclaimed her visitor's name.

“Rosaline!” 

Fear of discovery urged her to repeat her instruction to be quiet - but relief at seeing her sister again made her momentarily forget about such precautions as Livia hastened across the room, and Rosaline rushed to meet her halfway. But where she had expected her sister to throw herself into her arms in exuberant greeting, Livia stopped just short of where Rosaline stood, lifting a hand to reach out and brush trembling fingertips along her cheek.

"Is it really you? Or just some cruel dream?"

Rosaline laughed shakily, grasping her sister's hands in hers to reassure her of the truth of her physical presence.

"It is me, you silly goose. I've come to take you away from this place."

“But how... how are you _here_?”

“Isabella sent me. Well, she sent me to Venice first, to ask the Doge for the aid of his forces. And now that this aid is secured, I came to take you...” - _home_ , she almost said – but at this point in time, they knew not if they could return to Verona and call it their home. “To safety. Now, enough chatter...”

They needed to be on their way, Rosaline wanted to remind Livia – but as always, her little sister's thirst for news needed slaking first.

“You made this entire trip all alone?” 

“Only the last stretch of it.” Rosaline evaded answering in full, for surely it might take some time to explain Benvolio's role in the mission – and in her life. But of course, here too Livia's questioning did not cease, and she soon got the name of Rosaline's protector and travelling companion out of her. 

“Benvolio accompanied me to Venice, but he has now returned to Verona with the Doge's forces.”

“Benv...- the _Montague_?” As expected, this information only heightened Livia's confusion. “He is _alive_?”

Rosaline could not but smile when she confirmed this, a fact that brought her daily joy: Benvolio was alive, as far as she knew.

Livia was still puzzling out the whole situation.

“Last I heard he was to be executed for...” she broke off, understanding passing across her face. “Paris set him up.” 

Rosaline squeezed her arm comfortingly. “He did. He was the mastermind of the entire cabal.” Well, him and their aunt, but this too was information Rosaline thought was best delivered at a later time, when there was time enough to explain and to comfort.

“But now we are going to get you to safety, Benvolio and the Doge's forces are going to defeat Count Paris, and this whole nightmare will come to an end.”

Livia nodded bravely, though tears glistened in her eyes, and there was obvious pain on her face. It was almost enough for Rosaline to give in to the urge of asking all the questions she had about her sister's fate, for clearly, the Count had betrayed her just like he had the rest of their city. But time was pressing, and the most important thing for now was to get Livia out of Mantua, and out of Paris' reach – everything else they could discuss once they were somewhere safe. After all, Rosaline still had some big news of herself to share, but this was not the time.

“Come now, Livia. There will be time to talk later.” 

Rosaline had been right to urge her sister on: They had just managed to slip out the tapestry door and find the dark cloak Rosaline had hidden away in a linen closet when the same senior housekeeper who had sent her up to Livia's room came up the narrow corridor towards them, no doubt to investigate what was taking her so long.

Forcing herself to keep calm, Rosaline shoved her sister behind the linen cupboard and left the doors open, pretending to rifle around inside it. When the old housekeeper reached her, she addressed her with an apologetic smile.

“The Countess spilled some wine on her sheets, and has asked me to change them. I thought I could take the work off you.” 

The woman's suspicious expression lifted, and she nodded briskly.

“Very well. But be quick about it – we've enough work to do, and cannot afford to dawdle.” She turned to walk away, and Rosaline let out a relieved breath - only to suck it right in again when the older woman turned back once more. "And remember what I told you: The Count wishes for us to address him and his wife by their new titles, as Prince and Princess."

With that, the older woman disappeared down the corridor again, and Rosaline pulled out the brown cloak she had hidden in the linen closet and shoved it at her sister.

"Put this on. 'tis not much of a disguise, but better than nothing."

They resumed their flight down the corridors and servants' stairways without meeting anyone, and soon reached the kitchen. Two kitchen boys were at work scrubbing vegetables for the servants' lunchtime stew, but Rosaline sent them away on some fictional errand.

And then the door was within their sight, the freedom outside it in their grasp, and Rosaline was reaching toward the key hanging on its hook beside it...

"And what do you think you're doing _now_?"

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo, this is a little plot-heavy and an awkward length as well - but I have done literally nothing productive today, and this makes me feel a little bit like I have.   
> Also, the last part of the chapter wasn't finished yet, so I chopped it off.   
> Btw, I love writing Rosvolio fluff, but the scenes with Livia and Rosaline are also such fun to write!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, things are a little bit shitty atm, but on the plus side, we're reaching the parts of this story where I've had big chapter chunks already written, so updates should be quick. Yay!  
> I'm not entirely certain anymore of the time frame between Benvolio's arrest, their return to Verona, and Livia's elopement, but I think the way I wrote it here checks out.  
> Now pls enjoy my super indulgent chapter dedicated entirely to the Capulet sisters' awesomeness (and a little bit to Rosaline and Benvolio and their precious new love.)

_"And what do you think you're doing now?"_

Rosaline froze, her blood running cold with fear at this renewed threat. But she could not let her mind follow and be equally stupefied; she needed to think on her feet. They had come so close to freedom – she would not let it be ripped away at the last moment.

Slowly, both to give herself time to think and so as not to appear guilty right away, Rosaline turned to face her unlikely opponent: the very same old housekeeper who had nearly caught them before. She had to hand it to her, the woman missed absolutely nothing that went on in the household under her command.

Just like before, Rosaline scrambled to come up with something that seemed plausible, and betrayed her only as an overeager new employee rather than an intruder come to steal her master's wife.

"We've just had word from the miller: he's bringing by an extra shipment of flour. I figured it might be fastest to let him carry it in by the kitchen door." The lie slipped off her tongue easily, and Rosaline wondered briefly when she had become so adept at deception.

Unfortunately, this time she failed to convince the old housekeeper.

"The miller? He's only been here a week ago, and brought flour aplenty. He must be trying to sell us some leftover goods, and make a profit in the process. Let me speak to him, I'll sort this out."

For one brief, hopeful moment, Rosaline expected her to turn around and leave for the courtyard. But due to Rosaline's haste to get the kitchen door open, the housekeeper must have assumed that the miller was already waiting for them right outside. Before she could claim otherwise, the woman was upon them, pushing aside Livia so she could get to the key, and dislodging her cloak's cowl in the process.

The old woman froze mid-movement as she saw who was standing in her kitchen.

“ _Princess_?”

“I am no Princess,” Livia replied softly, though of course, her identity was still confirmed, and the old woman's suspicion aroused. Her eyes widened, her gaze going back and forth between Rosaline and Livia, taking in the simple cloak draped over her new mistress' silk dress, the door behind them. Then her face hardened as she seemed to have understood what was going on, and prepared herself for a confrontation.

“The Prince has ordered us not to let you leave the Palace.”

“Well, he's no Prince yet, is he?”, Rosaline growled impatiently. She was sick of being tyrannised by Count Paris even in his absence.

But the words had been a mistake, for they drew the old woman's attention to her.

“You're a spy from Verona!”

Confusion turned to anger on the woman's face, and when she half-turned to the door leading out the kitchen into the hallway, Rosaline knew what would happen next – and that she would have to prevent it.

Before the woman could start calling for the guards, Rosaline was upon her, Benvolio's dagger pointed at her throat.

“Not a sound!”

Her voice was harsh, a nervous twitch of her arm bringing the knife even closer to the woman's vulnerable neck, and the old housekeeper suddenly looked so terrified that Rosaline had to resist the urge to apologize and calm her down again. But that would not do – this was her one chance at freeing Livia.

“We mean you no harm, nor anyone else. If you promise to stay quiet and let us leave, you will not be hurt.”

The old woman's fearful expression remained unchanged, no word indicating whether or not she accepted Rosaline's terms.

The dagger was beginning to tremble in her hand as she waited for a decision, any indicator of whether or not she would have to use it, but Rosaline steadied her grip and tried to prepare herself for the worst. She had promised Benvolio to use the weapon if she must, and she would do nothing less now. She had done so before, after all, and with success – though in this moment, she had to force herself not to remember that confrontation on the road to Venice: The contrast between cold steel and hot blood as it spilled over her hand, the surprising firmness of the flesh resisting the weapon, until it gave and tore under the sharp blade. She had never found out if the man had been found and helped, or if he had bled to death on that dusty road.

But even if her actions now would lead to spilled blood again, she reminded herself: She had no other choice.

The old woman was still hesitating, eyes flitting back and forth between Rosaline, Livia, and the blade pointed at her throat, and Rosaline’s thundering heartbeat seemed to call out to her, urging her to surge forward and eliminate the threat once and for all…

But just as she inched forward, Livia’s hand on her shoulder stopped her. Soft and soothing, she addressed the old housekeeper.

"You have been kind to me since I first set foot into this palace, and have seen how I've suffered all this time. And you know the reason for my suffering: The Count has won my hand with lies and deception and threats to my family's safety; he has abducted me here, and keeps me prisoner while he wages war upon my home. I know you are loyal to your master – but must your loyalty make you so cruel?”

The old woman was listening intently, her expression turning ever more sympathetic as her sister laid out her woeful situation.

"This is no spy but my sister," Livia explained with a gesture at Rosaline, "and she only wants to take me home. If you have a good heart, you will let us go."

One more race of terrified heartbeats, then the woman had made her decision: She took a small step backwards and raised her hands – but she did not call out for the guards.

“Very well then – go.”

The words were barely out of the her opponent's mouth when Rosaline had turned and grabbed the key off its hook. But while she unlocked the door with trembling hands, Livia stepped towards the old woman to take her hands.

“Thank you. I will not forget your kindness.”

The housekeeper's mouth was still pinched tight, but she nodded towards the door, which Rosaline was holding open for her sister.

“Then you’d best keep me in your prayers, and hope for my sake that the Prince never finds out who helped you.”

“He will not find out from us. And God willing, he’ll never become a Prince either.”

With those words, half promise and half threat, Rosaline took Livia’s hand and pulled her through the door, slamming it shut and locking it with the key she had taken with her for that purpose.

She listened for any commotion on the other side of the door, for the housekeeper to call out for the guards as soon as she was out of reach of Rosaline’s knife – but for the moment, all remained quiet. Chucking the key into a nearby bush, Rosaline took her sister’s hand once more, and they set off down the alley at a run befitting neither a future Princess nor a lady of both House Capulet and Montague.

But who cared about an elegant gait when their freedom was at stake?

***

 

The alley behind the palace had led them straight to a busy marketplace, where they could mingle in with the crowd without fear of recognition should there be guards after them already, and an offer to an old man to help him push his cart provided the perfect cover as they exited the city by its Southern gate.

The old farmer’s way home led him directly past the nunnery that was to be their shelter, and so it came to pass that even when a troop of guards passed by them, they did not spare them a second glance: The Count’s guards were searching for an escaped Princess after all, not an old farmer and his daughters on the way home from market.

An appeal to Christian charity opened the gates of the convent to them, but when Rosaline, unable to lie to a woman of God, told the Abbess who exactly she would be harbouring, that hospitality was nearly revoked once again. Desperate, she reached for one last trick: A mention of that same Montague money that had granted her and Benvolio entrance to the monastery two nights ago. Having to use Benvolio’s name like this made her distinctly uncomfortable, but she could once again defend it to herself with this one fact: She had no other choice. They needed shelter until Benvolio could come find them, and he’d have a difficult time doing so when they were forced to move on to somewhere else.

And shelter they were granted, finally, and led to a cell with two narrow beds in it. They were invited to join the nuns for their afternoon prayer and subsequent evening meal, and accepted both invitations so as not to offend their hosts – and because their stomachs were indeed making themselves noticed, after having skipped breakfast in favour of an escape from the city.

Rosaline still would have preferred an opportunity to finally talk to Livia in peace, something their travelling companion had prevented on the way to the nunnery. But she also had no intention to offend their hostesses, and so took their invitation, and sat silently through prayers and dinner and more prayers, until finally they could excuse themselves to their room.

Despite knowing they were as safe as could be behind the abbey's door, Rosaline could not shake the recently-acquired habit of taking additional precautions. She not only locked the door but jammed a chair underneath the door handle as well. Only when these provisions were completed did it occur to her that those were things Benvolio had done over the course of their travels, and again she felt that pang of melancholia – happiness laced with fear and longing, the latter of which she hoped would find an end soon, and give way to unmarred bliss once they were reunited.

For now, she let all thoughts of her new husband and his current trials rest and focused on her sister, and the many things she had yet to find out about what had happened to Livia over the past days. Despite her eagerness, however, Rosaline was not quite sure where to start – but to her surprise, Livia was the one who made the first step, and addressed the elephant in the room with unusual candour.

“Was it... did my ignorance in trusting in Paris lead to all the horrors that have befallen Verona?”

Rosaline's first protective instinct was to deny the suggestion out of hand. But her sister's earnest look, the mature manner in which the question was posed, prompted her to pause and consider it in all earnestness. She sat on one of the two narrow beds, pulling Livia along to sit beside her.

“No. I think your faith was misplaced, and it put you at the mercy of this villain and him in a position to manipulate all who care about you.” Livia drew in a shaking breath, no doubt taking her answer as confirmation of her fear: that all of this was somehow her fault. She could not be further from the truth, and Rosaline rushed to reassure her. “But I think Paris' plan was set in motion long before he first came to Verona, and he would have seen it through with or without you. You had no way of knowing what he was planning, and no way to prevent it either.”

But contrary to what she had intended, those words made her sister burst into tears.

"But I did! You wrote me a note when you left with the Montague, you explained everything, but Paris somehow got his hands on it, and by the time I found it in his jacket, we were already eloped and on our way to Mantua. To think, if I had been quicker into your room... if I had found that letter and figured out the truth of his villainy earlier... At the very least, I could have told the truth when everyone thought the Montague had abducted you.”

"You mustn't think so, Livia! You know not if that is what would have happened – it is just as likely that, should you have found out about the plot, they would have killed you, or found some other way to make you keep your silence."

Livia looked like she might protest, perhaps to claim that her husband would never lay a hand on her – but even if that was true, Rosaline knew from experience that the Count had other means of silencing someone.

"They could have done to you what they did to me, and simply threatened the lives of others – would you not have done then as they told you to?"

Livia listened intently, then nodded carefully, and Rosaline thought she had her convinced – but something else occurred to her sister then.

" _They_? So he had co-conspirators?"

"Yes." Here was another bit of information that would hurt Livia, who had always got on better with their aunt than Rosaline herself had, perhaps thinking that it was better to have a poor substitute for a mother than none at all. "Our aunt was helping him all along. First she planned to have Juliet marry a man who would come to be a prince and then, when that hope was dashed, she simply wanted to see Verona burn in her thirst for revenge."

Livia pressed a hand over her mouth in shock.

"Aunt Giuliana! A traitor!"

Rosaline nodded, hoping fervently that Livia's loyalty would not go so far as to defend their aunt, for Rosaline knew she would not be able to hold back her true opinion of the woman whose duty it should have been to care for them, and who had instead been willing to let them suffer a myriad of pains and dangers. But once more, Livia surprised her with rational assessment.

"That is why she hid him in our basement and nursed him back to health."

"And she knew that he killed the nurse too, and planned to abduct you. She knew all of it, and did not care to stop it, for the only person she cared about is dead."

"Juliet," Livia said, pain thick on her voice and tears rolling down her cheeks. "Oh Juliet, if only you had never met your Romeo."

It would certainly have saved them all a good deal of pain, Rosaline had to agree, even if it would have also prevented some very important things from happening in her own life.

"Come now, sister – you and I have known for a long time that we do not have the luxury to cry "if only". Instead, we must see to ourselves, and look forward unflinchingly. Now tell me, are you well? Unharmed? And..." _...and unburdened with a traitor's child_ , she had wanted to ask, but could not bring herself to ask it out loud.

Rosaline had seen during their brief reunion in Verona that her sister genuinely loved Paris before she knew of his true nature, and had no doubt that their hasty marriage had been consummated. But there was no use in worrying about that now. Her sister had suffered heartbreak enough, and would need some time to heal from it. If a child should spring from her ill-fated marriage, it would not do to treat it as a burden before it was even born.

"I have been cared for by Paris' servants, and he has never raised a hand against me. But _well_... I know not if I can attest to being well just yet."

And with that, the tears her sister had been struggling with this entire conversation finally burst forth, and Rosaline was almost thankful to see them. Reassuring as it was to see that her sister had weathered her ordeal well enough to speak of it in a calm, rational manner, she had nonetheless felt that the stoic way Livia had presented herself had been a kind of armour, and one that she had no need for any more now.

Without any further word, she pulled her little sister close, laid her head against her shoulder, and let her cry.

"He claimed to love me and I believed him... and perhaps still do."

Rosaline knew not what to say to that. She did not find it completely impossible to imagine that perhaps her sister was right: Perhaps Paris, for all his villainy, did indeed love his wife, strange as it was to see someone as wicked as Count Paris form an attachment to someone so good and true as her sister. The thought was so jarring that Rosaline was momentarily tempted to deny it out of hand, and tell her sister that the scheming Count could not possibly have ever truly loved her. Cruel as it was, telling her such might even be in her favour in the long run, for it might allow her to separate the man she thought she knew and loved from the monster he was... But then, life was not as simple as that.

"And he might not have been lying about it. Even wicked people are capable of love – but it does not make them any less wicked."

Livia burst into fresh tears and said nothing any more for some time, and Rosaline simply held her, softly rocking her sideways like a child and murmuring soothing nonsense into her hair, the way their mother used to do when they were little.

Slowly, gradually, Livia's tears ran dry, her heaving sobs turned into sniffling breaths, and Rosaline felt that, though the pain had not yet passed, it was perhaps slowly beginning to heal, and so, she hoped, would Livia's sense of guilt for things she had no cause to feel guilty over, and yet still did.

"I still hope we might have stopped him earlier, for now all of Verona is paying the price for mine and our aunt's trust in him."

"It will not come to that," Rosaline reassured her, surprised by how firmly she believed in her own claim. "The Doge's army will defeat him ere he sets foot inside Verona's walls. They may not outnumber him, but they have Benvolio on their side, whose local knowledge will help turn the tide. We'll have good news from him soon, I am sure.”

This at least seemed to bring a change to the direction of Livia's thoughts, for she sat back upright to study her sister with a shrewd look.

“You sure have a lot of faith in a Montague,” Livia commented questioningly, and Rosaline knew that the moment of truth had come – time to confess to her sister what _else_ had happened.

“I have, for I have come to trust Benvolio, and to rely on him a great deal. Through all we have been subjected to, his concern was always for my safety and happiness, and I in turn have come to care about his well-being a great deal too. In fact....” one deep, strengthening breath, “we have both come to care for each other, and though we know not what the Prince's plans are for us going forth, we decided to get married.”

This earned her a loud gasp, followed by an incredulous exclamation: 

“ _Married_! To the _Montague_!”

Rosaline had to laugh at her sister's astonished tone.

“Yes. In the eyes of God, we are now what everyone in Verona has so wished us to be.”

“I do not understand – how did this happen? And _when_? I thought you said the two of you left the city immediately after the attack, and the Montague was imprisoned up until then. How could you have had time to marry?”

This was the moment of truth, and the admission that scared her, for she was unsure how her sister would take it: That she had not married Benvolio on the Prince's or anyone else's orders, but by her own choice.

“It was just before I came to Mantua.”

Livia's eyes widened almost comically.

“You _eloped_?”

“No! Well... we stopped by an abbey on the way to Mantua, and we asked the Abbot to marry us. Benvolio wanted to accompany me as far as possible on my way from Venice before he returned to fight with the Doge's forces, and I thought...” she swallowed hard, forced to say out a thought that was painful just to think about. “I thought that if there was a chance he might not return from that battle, I would want us to have had as much time together as we could, even if it was only the one night.”

Well, two nights, Rosaline thought, but if she divulged that particular pre-marital adventure, her sister might just keel over in shock.

As it was, Livia seemed already to have trouble grappling with all the information - she sat there, slack-jawed and motionless save for a small, incredulous shake of the head.

“These are truly strange times we live in. Capulets marrying Montagues, what will we see next?” Livia ceased shaking her head and inclined it to study her sister, as if marriage should have wrought visible change upon her already. “'tis strange though, to see you change your mind in such a short amount of time, or even at all when it comes to the matter of the Montague.”

“I know. It must seem like quite the change of heart. But in truth, even when we claimed to hate each other, Benvolio was more willing to take into account my own wishes than anyone else, including our own uncle. Continuing to despise him would have been more than unjust, especially when he had no part in his family's crimes.”

Rosaline knew she made it sound like her changed opinion of Benvolio had been a mere rational decision, a matter of weighing Benvolio's innocence against her own beliefs about all who carried the name of Montague, and deciding that it was her prejudiced beliefs that must be eliminated. In truth, his loyalty and decency had only been part of her decision – and his teasing smile, his comforting touches and rousing kisses and the softness in his eyes when he looked at her had played just as much of a part.

“So he is _kind_ after all?” Mischief was dancing merrily in her sister's eyes, and under normal circumstances, Rosaline would have cuffed her on the arm for teasing her so. But now, like any newly-wed, she welcomed the chance to bestow praise on her new husband.

“Oh, but he _is_! Kind, and _sweet_ , and...” Rosaline broke off, ducking her head as she caught herself waxing poetic like some lovestruck young maiden. “But I should not be rhapsodizing so, when you...” but this was not making things any better either, Rosaline quickly realised.

“When my own husband has betrayed me?” Livia suggested, once more displaying a heartening willingness to face things head on as she grasped both of Rosaline's hands in hers. “Aye, he has. But no matter my own pain, why should I not rejoice at my sister's happiness? And if you are happy with your Montague,” again that mischievous smile, which led Rosaline to fear that her sister would continue to tease her about her change of heart concerning Montague husbands for quite some time, “then I am sure I shall never tire of hearing you sing his praises.”

Rosaline laughed shakily, suddenly overwhelmed by a storm of emotions. Amidst all the grief and strain and fear of the last weeks, here were suddenly bright, gleaming spots of happiness – but with Verona still under attack, Count Paris still at large, and Benvolio off to battle, it seemed like all of it might be ripped away from her at a moment's notice.

Still, her sister at least was here with her, and safe for the moment.

“Oh how I've missed you, cheeky though you might be.”

Livia laughed as well, and still driven by emotion, Rosaline clasped her hands tightly.

“Let us promise never to keep secrets from each other again, and never to let anyone separate us either.”

"Never." Livia squeezed her hands back. “After all, my sister's love has served me better than any fancies of a “one true love”, and the man I thought I'd found it with.”

“You know,” Rosaline reached out to tuck an errant curl behind her sister's ear, moved by her words, “I never much liked the idea of a “one true love”. Surely someone with a heart as big as yours can manage to love more than one person in their lifetime.”

Rosaline could speak from experience, after all: As truly as she loved her husband now, she had loved Escalus before him, and though it had been the innocent infatuation of a young girl, her heart back then had been true. It had suffered since then, yes, but it had learned to love again, and even more deeply, now that she was older and her love tried and tested by fate. Such was the nature of love, she had learned: It could wreak pain and havoc beyond belief – but it was a tough, enduring thing, and could always be counted upon to return in some form or other.

But unfortunately, her sister did not take her words as the comfort they were intended to be.

“I suppose I might have to, at some point – barring a victory for Paris, this whole thing might very well end with him dead or imprisoned, and I'll have to find some other man to secure my future.”

“You need not worry about that now,” Rosaline hurried to assure her sister, “for Benvolio and I will not allow our aunt and uncle to claim you any more. We'll take care of you for as long as you need, and you only need to think of marrying again if you choose to.”

“We'll both become Montagues then?” Livia sounded less than enthused.

“We shall _always_ be Capulets, you and I. But we'll no longer be at war with the Montagues.”

“I certainly look forward to that,” Livia said, latching on to the silver lining ahead, and Rosaline could only wholeheartedly agree.

They went to bed soon after, exhausted from the day's terror and excitement – but no sooner had Rosaline extinguished the candle on the wooden stool that served as her nightstand that Livia spoke up again.

“I still cannot believe you fell in love with a _Montague_.”

Without the candle and with only a small window high up on the wall, the room was in complete darkness – but Rosaline could perfectly imagine her sister's smug little grin in this moment.

“In my defence, it all happened very fast.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've sort of borrowed one line of this chapter from E.M. Forster's "Where Angels Fear to Tread". It's a quote that has always struck me: "The horrible truth, that wicked people are capable of love, stood naked before her, and her moral being was abashed."


	15. Chapter 15

Catching up with General Montalbano as he and his men advanced on Verona was a matter of half a day's hard riding, and Benvolio rejoined the troops as they made camp just out of sight of Verona's walls. The General welcomed him back with a look it took Benvolio a moment to identify, but which he eventually decided conveyed respect and appreciation – sentiments he was hardly used to, despite Rosaline’s recent and formidable efforts.

Much as he had hated saying goodbye to Rosaline, Benvolio knew in that moment that it had been the right thing to do: He had shown the General that he at least would stick to his word, and would do his part to free his city.

It only occurred to him later, after sitting in as the General and his officers went over their strategy of attack one last time, that there was something more than the feeling of having done his duty that made him go to sleep with a sense of immense satisfaction: The feeling, conveyed by the General's behaviour towards him, of being met as an equal by a good man, instead of belittled and despised by peers and superiors alike.

Perhaps there was something to be said for turning his back on his old pleasure-seeking ways and becoming a respectable citizen, Benvolio thought; one who did his duty for his city, and was valued for his contribution in turn.

***

 

They rode out before dawn the next morning, ready to attack the Count's encampment at first light, and it was perhaps due to tiredness that Benvolio's thoughts were not entirely on the battle ahead. Instead, they strayed towards Mantua, wondering if Rosaline had made it there, if she had gained entry to the palace, had maybe even already found her sister and made it back out, back towards him... Or if she had been discovered, and put in chains as a Veronese spy... But that could not be.

Worry warred with anticipation for their reunion, and since there was enough to worry about due to the impending battle, Benvolio decided to focus on the anticipation. Not much longer, and he would be reunited with Rosaline, if all went well. He would get to kiss her again, and be kissed in return, and do a whole lot of other things he had learned she enjoyed during their wedding night and the night before it.

For that alone, he really ought to survive this day, Benvolio decided, and turned his mind towards Verona once more, lighter than it had been earlier, and full of a hope and happiness he was sure not many men felt as they rode to battle.

He might die before the day was over, yes – but he might also live, and if he did, he finally had something to live _for_.

He had a _future_ now, and it could not be more different than he had imagined it to be not long ago: with the spectre of death hanging over it, or at the very least loneliness and misery and a loveless political marriage.

Now… now all of that had changed.

Rosaline Capulet had been dragged kicking and screaming into his life, and before he knew what was happening, she had made herself a home there, had somehow decided clearing him of the allegations against him was her responsibility, and had stuck to that self-imposed duty to what seemed like the very end. She had seen him through his darkest moments, and now, with her, he was beginning to see the light again.

And as soon as Verona was saved and Rosaline's sister freed, they would spend the rest of their lives together. They would look for a house to live in, free of the ghosts that haunted their last homes, and filled with all the love they had failed to provide either of them. They would start a family of their own, and teach their children never to let themselves be driven by hatred and prejudice and greed.

Just one more battle for both of them, and that future, small and unassuming though it was, would be theirs.

That was the thought he held on to when the General gave the order to attack and he rode, spear held tight in hands that wanted to tremble, heart hammering along with the hoof-beat beneath him. Then he crashed into Paris' waiting line of defence, and all coherent thoughts were drowned out in the deafening roar of battle.

But the image of her remained, bright and soft and beautiful.

***

 

Frivolous as it may have been, thinking of Rosaline right before the General gave the signal to attack had been a good choice: It left the memory of something good and beautiful on his mind while all around, the earth seemed to open up to drag him and everyone around down to hell.

His mind would form no beautiful memories over the day that followed, would barely even be able to make a coherent record at all – too much was happening, too many horrors unfolding for one mind to comprehend: The crash of horses into hastily-formed lines of defence, the screams and wails of injured and dying men, the foul smell of death spreading with inexplicable speed, the fury with which his first opponent's sword met his, and then another and another and another.... Benvolio cut them all down, driven not so much by coherent thought as by one instinct, pulsing in his blood: _Survive_.

Benvolio knew not how long the fighting lasted, whether it took minutes or hours or days. For some reason, he had believed that one forceful attack would be all it would take, and then the fight would be over quickly. But though they had the element of surprise on their side, the Venetian forces were outnumbered by Paris’ army, and Verona’s own defenders were barricaded in behind the city’s walls, hastily reinforced with wooden planks and piles of rubble, and provided little help when Paris told his men to turn and charge at the approaching Venetian troops.

To make matters worse, Benvolio was knocked off his horse at some point, which put him at a severe disadvantage even though he luckily withstood the fall without injury. He was not a particularly skilled rider, but in the chaos of battle, he would have much preferred the advantage of a horse. Still, without an unfamiliar steed to control, he could focus on his strength, rely on his skill with the sword, and hold out – and he did, for he knew not how long, with a strength he had not known he possessed.

Distantly, he heard horns and cheers but could not make sense of what they meant. They could not spell victory yet, for the fight was still thick around him, with no sign of easing up. In fact, in this very moment a mounted knight appeared and seemed to pick him as his next target, for the man steered and spurred his horse full tilt towards him, with nowhere to flee to.

Benvolio took a solid stance and readied himself to fight once more, trusting in the same instinct that had carried him this far. Staring down death, as often as he had done it recently, was still terrifying – but at least now, he could do so as a free man, hands unbound and sword at the ready. If he went down today, he would go down fighting.

But at the very last moment, with Benvolio’s sword within striking range, the rider stopped his horse abruptly, lifting the visor of his helmet – and revealing the grim face of General Montalbano.

“Get yourself a horse, Montague – Paris is escaping!”

With that, he galloped off, and Benvolio was left to carry out an instruction that sounded a lot more simple than it actually was. Luck came to his aid, however, or rather, someone else’s luck was running out at the right moment: Just a few paces to the side, a rider was hit with a spear and slipped, injured, off his horse – and before the animal could panic and flee, Benvolio had grabbed its reins and swung himself up into the saddle, spurring the horse on to follow in the direction the General had left for.

Once out of the thick of the battle, he could breathe in more freely, could look up at the sky and notice that the sun was already past the highest point of its daily journey, and slowly beginning its descent. But the fighting was far from over: Even though Verona’s forces had finally managed to make a sortie – which, Benvolio realised now, was what the horns must have indicated earlier – Mantua’s troops held their ground even with their leader fled.

Weaving his way through the fighting without being cut down or dragged off his horse again was quite the challenge. But Benvolio made it, and eventually caught up with the General and the small group of men he had pulled from the battle to chase after the Count. He pointed Southwards, where Count Paris had last been seen, fleeing back to Mantua no doubt, but there was no sign of him any more.

But since the Count's intended destination was clear, it was easy to follow, or indeed to come up with a better strategy; a plan to cut him off. And that was exactly what had just occurred to Benvolio.

Romeo, endlessly falling in love and having his heart broken, had often fled the city on horseback to wallow in self-pity, and it had fallen to Benvolio to go after him. Which was why he now recognized the small copse coming up on their Western side, and knew that while the road to Mantua curved around it, a narrow path through the trees would lead them there as well, and hopefully faster.

When he conveyed this idea to the General, it was decided that half of the small group that had given chase should try Benvolio's short-cut, and set off through the copse. And indeed, when they emerged, it was to spot a lone rider, just a little ahead of them – and losing ground quickly as they spurred their horses on one more time at the General's command.

Much as he would have liked it, Benvolio was not the one who took Paris off his horse – but he did end up being the last man he fought, for even though the General had managed to lift the Count out of his saddle with a hard blow, the man was not defeated yet. The “New Prince” rolled back to his feet, sword outstretched and madness glinting in his eyes, and something in Benvolio snapped at the thought of letting him take just one more life.

Ignoring all common sense, Benvolio jumped off his horse to face their enemy at eye level, abandoning the safety of his saddle in favour of a chance to square off against the Count again, and settle his grievances once and for all.

Beside him, the General’s men made as if to dismount as well, to come to his aid perhaps, but the General raised a hand to hold them back.

This was Benvolio’s fight; his chance at justice.

It was only then that Count Paris recognized him, and an ugly sneer appeared on his face to match the gleam of madness in his eyes.

“Montague! You certainly are a hard man to kill – though I suspect it may be due to luck rather than skill.”

Benvolio ignored the taunt and charged without further reply, his sword slashing through the air towards his enemy – and jarring to a halt when Paris raised his own blade in defence.

Undeterred, Benvolio attacked again – his opponent parried – and so on until everything around him faded. Nothing existed save for the blur of their movements and the clang and screech of steel on steel as he and the man who would have seen him dead crashed together again and again. The man who had threatened Rosaline’s life, and convincingly enough to make her resort to lies and betrayal. Who had caused pain and death and destruction from the moment he first set foot into Verona, all because he wanted to claim the city for himself.

Paris was a skilled fighter, Benvolio knew from their encounter in Verona that had marked him as a murderer, and he had to summon all his remaining strength to parry his opponent's lightning-quick blows, let alone land a hit himself – but Benvolio was _angry_.

The man before him had caused so much misery, and he expected to get away with it by abandoning the men willing to fight for him? Expected to escape justice, or to face it with a jaunty little quip?

No. The self-styled “New Prince” would be brought down, once and for all, and exposed as the coward he was.

Benvolio’s next attack came so quickly and forcefully that it went unparried, and his blade knocked askew the vambrace on Paris’ sword arm and sliced deep enough for the usurper to drop his sword – and within one heartbeat, Benvolio’s blade was at his throat.

“Surrender.”

He said nothing more, offered neither bribes nor threats. They both knew there was no need for either: Paris had no chance but to surrender, or die on the spot.

For half a moment, it seemed like Paris would go for the dagger still strapped at his hip and somehow try to evade the sword poised to end his life. But then he looked around, from Benvolio’s grim expression to the circle of mounted knights silently enclosing the two men, and finally to the General.

“Will you let him treat me like this? The battle is over, I am a prisoner of war. To attempt to kill me now, while I am already overpowered and outnumbered, is beyond dishonourable of your friend.”

He nodded at Benvolio as he said it, apparently attempting to turn the General and his men against him – to no avail.

“And none would ever hear of it, and be able to fault Signor Montague for it. For all people would hear, you would have fallen in battle.”

“Now would be the time to take up negotiations – and I can assure you, the price for letting me go is higher than the reward for dragging me back to Verona.”

“No price you could pay would make me double-cross an ally, as you seem to suggest,” replied the General coldly, before nodding at one of his men. “Tie him up and put him on a horse. Gag him if you must.”

The man did as told, assisted by another who quickly took Paris’ remaining weapons off him, as well as most of his lavishly decorated armour – to divide it up as spoils between the men who had ridden Paris down, Benvolio assumed.

But Paris still seemed to struggle to accept his defeat.

“I am a _nobleman_! I am entitled to be treated with respect and dignity!”

Heedless of his protests, the two men began to tie Paris’ hands, and Benvolio could finally lower his sword.

“A usurper and a coward such as you deserves no special treatment,” the General explained, and motioned for the Count’s horse to be brought forward, which had been captured shortly after he had been unseated. “Get on your horse, or walk back to Verona.”

This order Paris carried out, with the air of a man deeply offended, but the General’s men ignored his frown and handed the end of the rope they had used to tie their captive’s hands to the General, who fastened it to the horn of his saddle.

“Try to spur your horse and flee, and you will be lifted out of the saddle. And you will not be given another horse then.”

Benvolio had only a vague idea of how far from Verona they had come in their wild chase after the fleeing Count, but he wagered walking there after a days-long siege and a hard battle would be more than challenging. Count Paris must have come to the same conclusion, for he followed the General’s lead in spurring his horse to a trot but made no attempts to escape as they set off on the return journey.

With horses and riders exhausted from the battle and the ensuing chase, and being further slowed down by the complete darkness, they made their way back at a snail’s pace. It was only the fact that his blood was still up from the battle that kept Benvolio from falling asleep and keeling over in his saddle, he was sure, and when they arrived back within sight of the city to find that the fighting had ended and the Mantuan troops had been completely subdued, he was relieved beyond words. He doubted there was enough strength left in him for another fight – and what little strength he had left, he knew he needed to save for his last, even more important mission: Finding Rosaline.

***

 

Dawn was almost upon them when they came to a stop just outside the city gates. Before Benvolio could ask what they were stopping for, the General untied the rope that held their captive from the horn of his saddle and threw it over to Benvolio.

“This is _your_ victory, son – go and show your Prince that the threat is banished.”

Benvolio hesitated for a moment. He would not dare to think their triumph was his credit alone. After all, hundreds of men had fought just as hard as he had, had braved just as much of a risk to die – and many had, he knew.

But the General was looking at him expectantly, and Benvolio feared that refusing him might cause affront. He took the end of the rope and tied it around the horn of his saddle instead.

Paris had been silent during this entire interaction, too busy staring around at his defeated troops with a stunned expression; unable to comprehend what had happened. But when Benvolio began to spur his horse and the rope connecting them pulled taut, he urged his horse into a trot as well, and followed him through the gate.

Entering the city, there was no sign that anyone had slept that night. The city's gates were now open to allow injured soldiers to be transported inside for help, and uninjured fighters to return to their families. Every house was lit, the streets bustling with people who had no doubt worked through the night to restore their freed city and take care of the fighters who had returned injured from the fight for its liberation.

As they made their way through the city to the palace, people paused in their work to line up along the street and gawk at the sight of the defeated pretender, and whispers began to rise when the citizens recognised who was leading their enemy to justice. More than once, Benvolio heard his name shouted out, spreading through the streets before them like a wave to greet him at every new turn.

But Benvolio remembered well the last time the citizens of Verona had called out to him – and then, they had had very different things to say. No one called him a murderer or a traitor today: He was hailed a hero and a saviour, was handed flowers by blushing maidens or simply had the maidens themselves shoved at him by their mothers.

To say it was a disorienting experience would be an understatement, and Benvolio was almost glad when the palace doors closed behind them, even though it meant facing a man he had no desire to speak to ever again.

Still, dragging Count Paris in chains into the throne hall to make him kneel before Prince Escalus was a moment of undeniable triumph, and Benvolio could not keep himself from being a little petty when he addressed the Prince.

“Here is your "New Prince", your Grace – bestow your justice.”

With that, he turned to walk away again, uncaring of court etiquette. His only thought now was for Rosaline, who might have made it out of Mantua by now, and was perhaps at this very moment braving the dangerous road with nothing for protection but the dagger he had given her.

But within less than two steps, he was held back by a hand on his arm – his uncle's.

Of course Lord Montague had found an excuse to refrain from fighting and stay near his Prince instead, no doubt looking for ways to profit off the situation. In fact, Benvolio noticed with a look around the unusually crowded throne room, many of the city’s nobles had – the atmosphere in here, though slightly more dignified, was near as lively as that throughout the city, with scores of people staring agog as Benvolio made his unceremonious return.

Clearly, his uncle found it insufficiently grandiose.

"What is this, nephew? You are the hero of the moment, the saviour of Verona. Will you not let the Prince and the people express their gratitude?"

_Will you not try and profit off your newly improved standing_ , was what his uncle was really asking, eager as always to turn any situation to his family's advantage. After all, if it was Benvolio’s well-being he was worried about, should he not suggest that his nephew rest a while? Once again, his uncle’s only concern was for his family’s name.

"Forgive me," he ground out with a curt bow towards his liege – the most he could manage in terms of deference in this moment, "but I have other business to attend to, and would beg your leave."

Escalus nodded, clearly more eager to get on with interrogating his prisoner than to show an interest in Benvolio's plans. But his uncle was less quick to give up.

"What business could _possibly_ be more important in this moment than Verona's triumph?"

Benvolio mustered his uncle coldly.

"My _wife's safety_ is more important."

"Your…" but shrewd as always, the Montague patriarch had guessed the answer before he had finished uttering the question. "The _Capulet_ _girl_?"

"The _Lady_ Rosaline," Benvolio corrected forcefully – no longer would he allow his uncle to disrespect a woman so much his better. "Who has done more than anyone in this room to deliver this city from peril, and is even now on a dangerous mission to retrieve her sister from imprisonment in Mantua."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Paris' head turn towards him, clearly startled by the mention of the younger Capulet, and Benvolio's sense of satisfaction grew. Let the villain know he had not only lost the battle for the city he so coveted, but the woman he loved as well. Benvolio in turn would soon reunite with the woman _he_ loved, and he needed no other reward for his efforts.

And if there was anything more that could add to his triumph, it was the expression on Escalus' face when Benvolio repeated his mission:

"As far as I am concerned, Verona may do as it pleases – I want nothing more than to see my wife home safely."

He knew not yet where such a home might be, but wherever it was, he would share it with Rosaline. And in order to do so, he had to get to her first.

And since the Prince seemed to have neither questions nor objections (nor, it seemed, the ability to form full sentences at the moment), Benvolio turned away once more, and finally strode out of the throne room.

Unfortunately, his uncle remained steadily by his side, and his presence – and the memories associated with it – threatened to sour the triumph of victory. But he would not let it spoil the prospect of being reunited with Rosaline – and he would damn well not let his uncle slow him down any more from facilitating that reunion.

“You really intend to turn your back on Verona in the hour of your greatest triumph.”

“I do.” Simply being forced to walk and converse with the man who had killed his father; had been content to let him be killed as well, was near unbearable to Benvolio – but with his mission in mind, he reined in his anger and kept his reply short, his pace brisk.

“Is your... wife in such danger then?”

“She very well could be, and I am not wasting any more time before I find her.”

When his uncle pulled him to a stop by the arm, Benvolio very nearly drew his dagger on him.

“Benvolio, wait...”

“For _what_?”

“I...”

But for the first time in his life, his silver-tongued uncle found no words, and Benvolio was glad of it. He had an inkling of what the older man meant to say, but no words would be powerful enough to obtain what he no doubt sought: Benvolio's forgiveness.

He would not give it – but in his impatience, Benvolio accepted the lure of a compromise.

“I know what you're afraid of, uncle. I remember your words on the eve of my execution. I remember what you did to my father, and to me for all the years after his death.”

His uncle's face went pale, and Benvolio decided it was best not to make it seem like he was threatening him.

“Don't worry – I will not seek retribution for my father's death, or challenge you for the title of Lord Montague, though we both know it would by rights be mine. No, you can keep your title, and live the rest of your life knowing what you did to get it. And in return, you will pay me what I am owed of my father's fortune so I can give Rosaline the life she deserves.”

His uncle nodded eagerly, perhaps seeing a chance to buy his nephew's forgiveness.

He would not get it.

“But you will no longer have any claim over me. From this day on, the only thing to connect us will be our name.”

His uncle's face fell, a rare show of true emotion that made Benvolio think that perhaps his uncle was feeling at least a little guilty for his crimes. But _a little_ would not be enough. And since he had no time for thorough retribution, Benvolio picked the quickest way he knew of hitting his uncle where it would hurt: His money.

“In the meantime, I advise you to go down to the Venetian camp and speak to their General. The Doge expects House Montague to compensate his men for coming to Verona's aid. _Generously_.”

And finally, when he walked away this time, his uncle did not follow.

It felt not like a triumph, no – there was no triumphing over the injustice that had been wrought upon him. But it did feel like a little bit of freedom, a weight that began to slide off his shoulders: He was no longer indebted to the man who had taken so much from him, and he was certainly not going to let anyone make him feel like the unwanted leftovers of his house any more.

On the palace forecourt, the horse Benvolio had grabbed out of the fray to chase after Count Paris had been taken care of, unsaddled and fed and led away to the stables to rest, but with just a few words, he was assured that a fresh one would be provided to him instantly. More servants appeared by his side to offer him water and wine and food, help him take off his heavy armour, and ask if there was anything else he would need.

Perhaps being a hero had its upsides, Benvolio began to think – but unfortunately, causing such a flurry of activity as he waited for his horse meant he was drawing the attention of all who passed by: One Veronese citizen after another came up to congratulate him on his victory and thank him for saving them all. Benvolio brushed them all off, claiming to be too tired for conversation – all but one.

“Where is my niece?”

Lord Capulet was doing his best to convey the authority that had been his birthright – but Benvolio knew what corruption lay behind the dignified façade, and was thoroughly unimpressed.

“Am I to assume you care about her well-being all of a sudden?”

“Of course I… My _family_ …”

The responding sputter was a satisfying start – but after what he knew of how Rosaline had been treated by her family, Benvolio felt it was important to tell them once and for all that she was no longer to be used or abandoned as it suited them.

“You need not concern yourself with that. Rosaline and her sister should be on their way back from Mantua, and I will ride to meet them as fast as I can.”

“There are rumours...”

Ah, that was what worried the man: _Rumours_.

“Those are not for you to concern yourself with either. Rosaline and I are married before the Lord, with his servants as our witnesses. Her reputation is perfectly safe.”

Benvolio had not intended to deal with _everyone_ who had wronged him or Rosaline all in one day, but if they insisted on pestering him, he decided he might as well tell them what he truly thought. And perhaps it was best to have this confrontation now, for he had a feeling Rosaline would not appreciate him meddling in her family's affairs. She would perhaps read it as a sign that he thought her honour was his to defend now simply because she had passed from her uncle's possession into his – even if such an interpretation of their marriage was the farthest thing from Benvolio's mind.

But though Benvolio barely knew Lord Capulet, he had watched him interact with Rosaline closely enough to have formed an opinion: He remembered well how eager the man had been to marry off his niece in exchange for Montague gold; the greedy pleasure on Capulet's face when the 20.000 ducats had been presented at their betrothal ceremony while Rosaline had bit back tears.

He also remembered the evening their betrothal had been announced by the Prince, the look of shock and betrayal on her face. Rosaline had clearly not been prepared for the subject of the meeting in the same way Benvolio had been, whose uncle had at least given him the appearance of a choice when it came to marrying a Capulet maiden. In the dark days after losing Romeo, Benvolio had not much cared either way, his wish to marry for love shaken by seeing what that same wish had cost his cousin. His only quarrel had been with the _choice_ of Capulet maiden, the very one who despised him so openly, and whose sight must always remind him of his cousin's death. But Rosaline said she had never been asked for her consent at all – her uncle would have been willing to drag her to the altar in tears, and while it would have been within his rights to do so, Benvolio found it impossible to forgive such cruelty.

Adding to this first impression the callousness with which her uncle and aunt had reacted to her sister's abduction, and the fact that the two orphaned sisters had been banished to a life of servitude instead of taken in as beloved family members, Benvolio's bad opinion of the man before him was complete, no matter how old or venerated his family name. Rosaline would never be forced to make sacrifices and suffer humiliations for the sake of that family name again, or even to interact with anyone bearing it unless she chose to.

“Rosaline's honour is no longer yours to bargain with, and she no longer to be used or manipulated by you and your wife – and neither is her sister. I trust that when Rosaline returns her to Verona, Lady Livia will be restored to her former rank as well. After all,” he emphasized, leaning close with a hand on the older man's shoulder, “it would reflect _very_ poorly on the name of Capulet if a lady of House Montague would have to admit to her sister being kept as a lowly servant in your house, don't you think?”

Considering how proud Lord Capulet was of his name, Benvolio assumed urging him to do the right thing for appearance's sake might be a strategy worth pursuing, and the other man's expression suggested he was right.

“Of course. Livia will be Lady Livia once more. And as for Rosaline...”, Lord Capulet stuttered, perhaps grasping for something to say, or some message for Benvolio to convey.

But he had no time to come up with anything before a groom appeared with the horse Benvolio had asked for, saddled and ready to ride out, and Benvolio decided the older man had had enough time to come up with the apology he so clearly owed his niece, and had squandered it worrying about his family's reputation instead.

Benvolio mounted his horse and rode off without another word. He had nothing more to say to the man before him, and more importantly, he had somewhere else to be now: Somewhere, Rosaline was waiting for him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was surprisingly difficult bc I really fucked myself over with the timeline here: For Rosaline to have spent two nights away (one at Mantua and one at the convent) Benvolio would have had to either fight for a day and a night straight, or take a break after the battle, which felt highly unlikely - I never imagined anything for this chapter but him wanting to leave and go look for Rosaline basically the moment the battle is over. But I googled some stuff about how long battles lasted and found that they could indeed last several hours to days, and that a time-consuming part of them apparently was riding down enemy soldiers who fled after their side was defeated. So this should be somewhat plausible, if still very thinly researched.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of those chapters I've worked on for ages, so I honestly can't tell anymore if it's like, the Best Thing Ever or Pure Garbage. Ugh, editing.

Rosaline had never been a patient person, no matter how her mother and the Nurse had tried to instil that virtue within her. Now, she wished their efforts had borne fruit, for she had only been waiting for Benvolio's return, or at the very least news of Verona, for one day and yet felt close to losing her mind already.

During morning prayers, she had prayed for nothing but his safety – but instead of restoring her faith, the time for contemplation only provided an opportunity to come up with ever more gruesome ways Benvolio might die. At breakfast, she had barely managed to gulp down more than a few spoonfuls of porridge the sisters handed out to them. Throughout the morning, as she and Livia helped out with tending to the nuns' vegetable garden, Rosaline was distracted enough to nearly drive a shovel clean through her foot. And when they were released from their labour just before the nuns’ midday prayer and headed to a shady corner of the cloister courtyard, Rosaline kept pacing up and down before her sister until Livia finally ran out of patience herself.

“Will you stop that pacing? You'll drive us both mad!”, she chided, though gently, and tugged Rosaline down by her hand to sit beside her on the grass.

“I am worried. We should have had word of him by now.”

“We cannot know that. The fighting might have lasted longer. The General might have decided to postpone the attack. There might be things to take care of afterwards. There are plenty of reasons he might be late.”

Rosaline exhaled shakily, holding on to the lifeline her sister's words were offering. Her own mind had only come up with dreary reasons for Benvolio's delay: Defeat, injury, death... As often as she had chided her sister for being naïve, now Rosaline was thankful for her optimism – and then a thought occurred to her that further lightened her mood.

“He might be taking a bath.”

Of the two of them, only Rosaline understood this joke of course, and Livia looked confused when it prompted her to laugh to herself.

“He does like a nice long bath,” Rosaline explained, somewhat poorly perhaps.

“I did not need to know _that_.” Livia pulled a face, which earned her a jab in the ribs with Rosaline's elbow.

“There's nothing untoward about taking a bath.” In fact, Rosaline thought, cleanliness was quite a welcome trait in a husband – but she kept that thought to herself so as not to prompt another disgusted grimace.

“Still, knowing next to nothing about my new brother-in-law, I hardly think _this_ was the first thing I ought to learn.”

Rosaline had to laugh again, and with her worries somewhat eased, she could finally enjoy having her sister by her side once more. She flopped down to lie on her back on the grass, uncaring of how it might stain her dress, and felt suddenly transported back to long-gone summers in Verona where they had lain like this in the shape of the old pine tree behind their house, staring up at the sky to look for shapes in the clouds. Livia had always been better at that game, imaginative enough to see the entire animal kingdom in nothing more than a few wisps of white, but Rosaline had been talented at spinning stories about her sister's manifold creatures; epic tales of romance and adventure and various acts of heroism.

“What is he like then? Your Montague?”

Startled out of her thoughts, Rosaline turned her head to look at Livia, strongly reminded of her conversation with Benvolio just a few nights ago, when he had asked almost the same question about her sister, and with the same goal of distracting her in mind. Perhaps there was no need to worry about whether or not the two of them would get on, she thought hopefully, before turning her mind to the question.

“He is....” Where to start, Rosaline wondered? Benvolio's smile came to mind most easily, for it seemed the most precious to her, but she hardly thought her sister wanted to listen to her rhapsodise about her new husband's _smile_. “He makes the most ridiculous jests, and at the least appropriate moments.”

“ _Jests_?” Livia sat up to stare at her, aghast. “ _That_ is how you would praise your husband? Ought you not at least tell me of how  brave he is, and how gallant?”

“Of course he's _brave_!” Rosaline replied sharply, before she spotted her sister's teasing smile, and her indignation faltered. “And gallant... well, he can be, though at times he's terribly mischievous...” She allowed herself a small smile, then immediately had to forbid herself memories of Benvolio at his most mischievous. “But as for his humorous temperament – well, perhaps in these dark times that trait is worth a lot more than one thinks.”

Livia's teasing smile faded, replaced by a thoughtful expression.

“Perhaps you're right.”

She could practically watch as the dark cloud of grief and pain settled over her sister once more, casting its shade over the lightness of the moment.

Rosaline had spent a lot of time thinking about all the things she hated Count Paris for – but nothing made her as angry as this: That in his search for ever more power and wealth, the pretender to Verona's throne had caused pain to someone as kind and bright and hopeful as her sister. But he would not succeed in his evil plans: She'd wrangle her sister's happiness back from him just as she had – hopefully – helped to snatch Verona from his grasp.

“Things will get better again, Livia. We will make sure they do.”

At least that brought a smile back on her sister's face, even if it was just a small, melancholy one.

“I know you will.”

Then, rather abruptly, she sat up and got to her feet.

“The Abbess told us we'd be welcome to join their prayers whenever we wanted. I think I've not missed too much of the midday prayer yet.”

Briefly, Rosaline considered holding her back. Surely after being locked up entirely for so long, fresh air would do her sister more good than prayers in a stuffy chapel? But if Livia thought prayer would help her, then Rosaline had no right to tell her otherwise. Instead, she let her go with a small nod and stayed behind, continuing to look up at the sky.

Rosaline's mind was too preoccupied for a return to that old childhood pastime, but simply attempting to make sense of essentially nothing proved at the very least to have a somewhat soothing effect. Soon, the smooth glide of white across azure, combined with the midday heat and the murmur of praying voices from the chapel, made her feel heavy and drowsy. Despite knowing herself and her sister safe, or nearly so, Rosaline had slept uneasily last night, waking from nightmarish scenes of death and dismemberment outside the gates of Verona, and being immediately gripped with the urge to pad across the room and check that at least one of her loved ones was safe. 

But just when her eyes drifted shut to make up for last night's loss of sleep, a mischievous voice rang out across the cloister courtyard.

“Well, look who's sleeping while the rest of us were fighting for Verona.”

It took no more than a few heartbeats for the voice to penetrate her daze, and for the realisation of what it meant to follow, then Rosaline had scrambled to her feet to dash across the courtyard. By the time she reached the figure standing by the gate with a broad grin on his face, she had picked up enough speed to crash into him and nearly bowl them both over.

"You're alive!"

"Apparently, I am a hard man to kill."

Leaning back to look at him, Rosaline took note of the smile on Benvolio's face, bemused as if he was enjoying some private joke. But she had not the patience to try and get to the bottom of it now – too eager was she to let her eyes rove over him and confirm once and for all that he was really _here_ , a sight that served to dispel all the worries that had plagued her in one fell swoop.

But, she reminded herself, it was selfish to think only of what his arrival meant for _her_ – after all, there was reason to assume it signified just as much of a relief for the rest of Verona.

"So it is done?"

"It is. Verona has been freed; Count Paris brought in chains before the Prince. My uncle is seething because I told him the General expects him to contribute to his troops' pay. _Your_ uncle is seething over our elopement. It seems we achieved even more than we set out to do."

The long list of achievements and unexpected triumphs made her laugh, and the sound ended up a little too shrill, relief and happiness lending it a hysterical edge, and causing it to startle the dozing cat nearby. Rosaline did not care: Verona was free. Her sister safe from Paris' persecution. And Benvolio was _alive_ , standing before her with nary a scratch on him.

She could not help herself – Rosaline threw her arms around him once more, simply because she had the luxury of assuring herself of his presence with more than just her sense of sight, and intended to make thorough use of that opportunity. He chuckled softly into her ear but drew her against him nonetheless, arms tightening around her waist until they were _almost_ too tight in the very best way.

"My, you must have truly missed me."

She had, achingly so – but his observation sounded much too smug to simply let it stand.

"I assume that feeling will fade soon enough once we live together."

Another chuckle, then he drew back to study her.

"I see you remain ever the sharp-tongued Capulet harpy."

His face when he said it could not have made it clearer that there was nothing left of the “harpy's” original pejorative meaning: Benvolio used the term with all the softness of the sweetest endearment.

Still, on principle, Rosaline could not let such language stand. She cuffed him on the shoulder, exaggeratedly outraged – though still in his padded doublet and mail shirt, she doubted Benvolio could even feel her playful attack.

"You came here straight from the battlefield?"

"Nearly. I brought Paris before the Prince, had some words with our uncles and the basest of meals, and then rode here on a fresh horse."

"Not even a moment's rest to let the citizens of Verona celebrate their saviour?"

"I did not delay a second longer than necessary, and I ought to be offended that you would expect me to." 

For a moment, Rosaline thought he was serious, and that she had indeed offended him – then he leaned in to bump his nose against hers affectionately.

"I needed to know you were safe."

He sounded so genuine that she could not but take his words at face value: that knowing her to be safe really had been a deep need, just like her worry about him had made her physically anxious.

"And what of your sister? Did you find her?"

Rosaline nodded. "She is heartbroken, but otherwise unharmed. She's inside, joining the nuns' afternoon prayers, which I hope will give her comfort." This reminded her of the second thing she wanted to do most urgently, right after taking him in her arms. "But once the prayers are completed, I shall introduce her to you."

It felt increasingly strange that Livia and Benvolio had not been personally introduced yet, and Rosaline could not wait to rectify this – though she had to admit, she was somewhat anxious about the meeting, despite knowing well the kind nature of both involved parties. Would her sister be able to forget about Benvolio's family name, and come to appreciate the man behind it? Rosaline could only hope so.

"And I look forward to meeting her." He paused, looking down his dusty form. "But perhaps I should clean up at least a little bit? After all, I do want to make a good impression on the person closest to you."

Again he seemed genuine in his wish, a little nervous even, and Rosaline felt her heart swell once more with ever-growing affection.

Leaning in close, she pressed a kiss to his lips and found it instantly returned, and with such eagerness that she had to remind herself that they were standing in the middle of a nunnery, in full view and broad daylight – though this at least could be rectified.

"I wager you might be allowed momentary shelter in our cell to wash and rest awhile."

She took his hand to pull him after her inside the shady cloister, casting only a quick glance around out of some vague fear that perhaps someone might object. Since all the nuns were away to prayer, the only person who could have stopped them was their trusted retainer – but the old man was asleep on a bench in the late afternoon sunshine. Once he woke up, the custodian would be surprised to find Benvolio's horse tied to a pear tree in the shadiest corner of the courtyard, freed of its saddle and with a bucket of water set before it – but no trace of the rider the horse belonged to, for he was hidden away in a nun's cell.

As soon as the door was closed and barred behind them, Benvolio sank down on Rosaline's cot with a groan. Only now did she really take in anything beyond the mere fact that he was here, and seemingly unharmed, and realise that he looked deeply exhausted. Stepping closer, she began to undo the leather lacing on his padded doublet.

"Did the fighting last very long?"

Benvolio hesitated, and the smile that had lit up his face only moments before faded, chased off by a shadow whose origins were not hard to guess – but which seemed all the more surprising when she heard his answer. 

"Not as long as it could have. We had the element of surprise, and though they held out for some time, we managed to overpower them eventually. It was only chasing down Paris that took us most of the night."

“He fled?”

“He tried to, but we apprehended him on the road to Mantua, and encountered no further resistance from his troops.”

So grim was Benvolio's voice in that moment, Rosaline wondered what exactly had happened when he had apprehended their enemy – but whatever she might imagine, Paris had survived it, and there was no need to press further for information Benvolio did not want to provide.

"What a fortunate outcome!" Slipping the doublet off his shoulders, Rosaline set it aside, then grasped the hem of his heavy mail shirt to pull it up as well. It took some help from him, but eventually, the armoured garment was lifted off.

"The General was certainly pleased. All things considered, Venice and Verona suffered relatively few losses." He hesitated again, and Rosaline remained quiet and let him find the words while she pulled off his padded under-shirt. "But it was still _ungodly_ , senseless bloodshed."

He sounded far away, and she wondered if he was transported back to that battlefield outside their city in this moment. She let him gather his thoughts while she fetched the bucket of water they had taken from the courtyard, drenching a clean cloth in it and wringing it out before she began, gently, to wipe the grime and sweat off his face.

"I've been in fights before, deadly ones too," Rosaline could attest to that, having seen him square off against attackers on several occasions, "but I've never seen anything like it. Such chaos and despair and rage..."

He drew in a shuddering breath while Rosaline simply continued tending to him, running the cool, wet cloth along his arms, chest, shoulders and back with smooth, even movements.

"I cannot understand how any ruler could put his subjects through this horror – and all for the sake of expanding his power." The thought seemed to leave him genuinely lost, and Rosaline had to admit she had equal trouble figuring it out.

"A cruel, greedy ruler with equally ruthless advisors, perhaps. But a different ruler might be convinced to do without such senseless violence, if he had good men to advise him so."

Benvolio looked up, eyes wide and seemingly unsure what she was getting at. Rosaline was not entirely sure herself – she only knew that she wanted his thoughts to linger no longer on that battlefield outside Verona, but on the future they could have inside the city's walls. The future he _deserved_ ; had fought and been ready to die for.

" _You_ could be such a man, as one of the first citizens of Verona. You have more than proven yourself in bringing Venice's forces to our aid. You are poised to become a man whose words have weight in our city, and who can influence its fate."

Benvolio pondered the words quietly.

"Do you really think so? Many in Verona would not."

"And we shall prove them wrong." She cradled his face with her free hand. "I do believe you have it in you to change things for the better. I have seen what you are made of, and some day Verona will see you just as I see you."

Another moment of quiet – and then the tug of a smile at one corner of his lips, a sign that perhaps the shadow that had hung over him was lifting, at least for the moment.

"Not _exactly_ as you see me, I assume."

Rosaline chuckled.

"No, I think not." She finished her work with one last swipe, looking him over thoroughly to make sure she had got most of the dust and grime off of him. (And for no other reason whatsoever.) Only once she was sufficiently assured did she set aside the bucket and cloth.

"In fact, I think I ought to be the only one who gets to see you _quite_ like this," she observed as she turned back towards him, a little nervous at what could be counted as an admission of jealousy – but if Benvolio understood it as such, he showed no sign of displeasure.

"And you shall be, for as long as you want to."

With that promise, he reached out for her – and before she knew what was happening, Rosaline found herself suddenly hauled against his still-damp chest. She stifled a shriek at the last moment, but could not quite stop a startled little giggle from escaping.

"We are at a _nunnery_ , you shameless man!" She pushed at his shoulders, though really only perfunctorily: There was not enough force behind the gesture, and rather than push herself away, she ended up merely running her hands along his shoulders, luxuriating in the way his muscles twitched under her fingertips and his skin, just cooled off from the water, seemed to heat up again where she touched him.

"If I recall correctly, just a few nights ago we were at a holy place too, and you had no objection whatsoever to my wanton ways."

As if to illustrate what exactly he considered wanton, Benvolio leaned his head forward to trace the seam of her dress with his lips, nipping at her skin as his hands slid up her sides. After a moment's pause to allow her to protest, her sleeves were pushed down easily enough, the front-lacing of her dress loosened, and his nimble hands found the strings pulling close the top of her linen shift, poised to undo them at her signal.

And suddenly, all reprimands seemed to slip from Rosaline's mind as instinct took over. Here was the man she loved, waiting for her to show him that she wanted him as much as his eyes professed he wanted her _._ Having just been reminded of how fleeting life could be, it suddenly seemed reckless and neglectful not to take what he was offering, no matter how hurried and quiet it would have to be.

Holding his heated gaze, Rosaline gathered her skirts, lifted them, and straddled his lap. The strings of her shift gave and his lips suddenly had much more to explore; heated skin and the swell of her breasts and their quickly-hardening peaks. He sucked one into his mouth and she gasped and rocked against him, drawing an echoing moan from his throat that she could feel vibrating against her skin.

"I quite forgot how beautiful you are," he mused once he managed to break away again.

As far as compliments went, Rosaline thought, this was rather a puzzling one.

"We've been separated for mere days and you forgot what I _look_ like?"

"No, not what you look like!” Benvolio reached out to cup her face with one hand, tracing her cheek as if to demonstrate how he had learned its shape by heart. “For I recalled your face whenever I could. But I was not prepared for how much more beautiful you would be when you were finally with me again." He smiled rakishly, then rocked up against her in a way that made pleasure radiate out from her very core and tore a moan from her throat. "And I was definitely not prepared for what it would do to me."

Apparently satisfied with the results of his actions, he pushed upwards again, while at the same time his hands came down to her hips, guiding them to rock against his.

“There is no way to imagine just how divine you look like this,” his movements continued, slow and deliberate, and his eyes held hers throughout, challenging her not to look away and then immediately making that challenge even harder. “And nothing to equal the way you feel when you come apart around me.”

His hands guided her hips into another firm roll against him, and together with this motion, his words reduced her speech to a helpless whimper. He kissed her languorously before drawing away, smiling softly at what she was sure was an expression of pure hunger on her face.

“I know, love. Lean back and lift your skirts.”

She did as told, and he quickly undid the strings of his breeches – not without brushing against her heated sex a few times, accidentally or not, and further stoking her need, until she could wait no longer: With a bit of help, she lowered herself onto him and sighed in relief when that was achieved, as if her body had been deprived of something elemental up until this point.

Then she began to move, supported by Benvolio's hands but no longer guided by them as she discovered that this position required _her_ to take charge, and stepped up to the challenge with pleasure. Already, her hips had begun to pick up the rhythm his hands had first guided them into, another thing her body somehow knew how to do just by moving in tandem with his. Apparently, Benvolio had been right on their wedding night: There really was not all that much  to know when it came to this. Emboldened by this realisation, she soon discovered ways to make him gasp and moan, and to create new and ever more delightful sensations for herself by shifting to allow for a new angle, a different friction.

And now that the unconscious part of her mind seemed to have taken over, the things that had lingered there these past days poured out as well, try as she might to push them aside. Much as she wanted to focus only on her happiness and relief, she found that her movements were just as much driven by memories of the fear and rage she had felt these past days, and which lent them a frantic, primal urgency.

Benvolio matched her passion without pause; with a fervour that suggested he had his own demons to battle in this moments; hands pushing down her dress to expose more of her skin and lips immediately moving to explore what he had laid bare, until she seemed to reach a rhythm that rendered him incapable of doing much more than simply holding her.

It did not take long for her to reach that blissful edge he had taken her to in their other encounters, and with a hand on her sex, Benvolio helped push her over entirely. He followed near immediately, his face pressed into her neck to stifle a final, hoarse moan, and she marvelled with a satisfied smirk at the fact that it had been _her_ doing this to him.

As her heartbeat calmed down, that drowsy heaviness she had experienced after the first times they had been together made itself known once more, the kind that made everything go soft and hazy and her limbs feel as if they were made of nothing more solid than unbaked dough. But she fought it off, wanting to be aware of everything about this moment and the beautiful truth it contained: That Benvolio was really back, unharmed and able to hold her like this, and hopefully to continue for a very long time to come.

The kiss prompted by this observation was suitably violent, a perfect storm of pent-up emotion, but even as it continued, sweetness snuck in once again. Benvolio's hands went from digging into her hips to gently stroking up and down her sides, and her own slipped up the back of his neck to play with his hair when they were no longer needed to prop herself up on his shoulders. The storm had passed, she reminded herself: They could afford to be soft now.

With a sigh, she lifted herself off his lap eventually, reluctantly pulling down her dress and lacing up her bodice. She would have preferred to remain pressed up against him, skin against skin, but given that they were at a convent in the room she was sharing with her sister, Rosaline had to concede that this was not the time to be lounging about in the nude.

Benvolio took equal care to cover himself back up, even putting on his shirt once more, before he pulled her back to the bed with him. It was narrow, little more than a cot, but with her back pressed against his chest and his arm around her waist to keep her from rolling off, it would do.

“I've missed you too,” he murmured, pressing the words into her shoulder with a kiss. Some not entirely forgotten part of her wanted to protest, to claim that really, she had been perfectly fine without him – but before she could, she felt his breathing even out at her back, exhaustion overcoming him.

Rosaline dozed off soon after, the lack of sleep from many troubled nights finally taking its toll now that she was safe, and everyone she loved with her.

But the peace was no more than a brief respite before, for the second time that day, she was roused by a loud voice casting judgment on her. This time, it was her sister's:

"Honestly, Rosaline – I leave you alone for _one_ afternoon, and you smuggle in a man." 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I might have mentioned, once or twice, that the whole point of this story is for them to get the most epic, sweet, over-the-top perfect happily-ever-after, and guess what? This is part one of three of that happily-ever-after. Three. Because (say it with me) They Deserve It.  
> 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is almost the end. There will be an epilogue, but really, this is kind of the ending.

The much-anticipated first meeting between Rosaline’s sister and her new husband went rather differently than Rosaline had expected.

For one thing, it began with her sister catching the newly-weds asleep in bed, hidden away in a nun’s cell that had probably never seen a man before, and had never been intended to.

For another, when Rosaline woke to her sister’s astonished teasing and meant to wake Benvolio too, she found it impossible to do so. Benvolio was not to be roused, no matter how she tried, until Rosaline, suspecting some undetected but fatal injury, began to fear for him in earnest.

In the end, Livia simply dumped out the rest of a pitcher of water over his head, and finally startled him awake. One hand going immediately for the dagger he had become accustomed to having at his bedside, Benvolio sat up and blinked, disoriented until he became aware of Rosaline’s presence before him.

“What happened?”

“You were impossible to wake!” Rosaline could not help it: Her momentary fear for his life when she had been so sure to have him safe and sound made anger spike within her, and formed the words as an accusation.

“I told you, I came straight here, without rest or delay.” Now, with his eyes adjusting to the dim light and his mind to the surroundings, Benvolio spotted Livia, who had been standing to the side to wait if her help was needed.

Seeing her, Benvolio quickly got to his feet to take Livia’s hand, bow, and kiss it in a display of manners Rosaline found astonishing to watch.

“You must be Lady Livia!”

Livia confirmed as such with only a small nod, apparently unsure how to react to being suddenly confronted with a Montague, and one she would have to call a brother from now on.

“Forgive me – I would have waited up to greet you properly, but we fought all day and rode all night, and I was simply too tired.”

As much as Rosaline had wanted for this meeting to go well, now she interrupted it again, her mind too caught up on Benvolio’s words for pleasantries.

“I thought you were exaggerating when you said you had come here without delay! If I had known you needed rest so badly -” she cut herself off before she could accidentally reveal what she had meant to say: If she had known how exhausted he was, she would not have given in to frivolous urges but put him to bed right away.

Rosaline felt her face heat up, and judging by his little grin, Benvolio knew exactly why – though he held his tongue in an unsually chivalrous manner, and continued to focus his attention on Livia, as he should.

“I am pleased to finally make your acquaintance, Lady Livia. Your sister speaks very highly of you, and I am glad to see the two of you reunited.”

Livia watched him carefully for a moment, herself observed by Rosaline in turn. This was perhaps the moment that would decide if the two people she loved most in the world would get along – but of course, Livia would be hard pressed not to at least try and get along with anyone, even a Montague.

“I am pleased to meet you myself, and you need not apologize for your tiredness – from what I hear, you have fought hard not only to free our city, but to keep my sister safe from harm as well. For that, I thank you.”

“In truth, I think your sister saved my life more often than I hers,” Benvolio replied lightly.

“She must care about you then,” Livia replied, her seriousness belied by the mischief dancing in her eyes, and Rosaline reminded herself there was nothing to be ashamed about: Of course she _cared_ for her husband, and should want him (and everyone else) to know as much. Still, her sister seemed determined to embarrass her.

“And Rosaline has certainly spoken of you a great deal too – though I must admit, I was surprised to hear her change her tune, and go from speaking of ' _that Montague brute'_ to ' _my husband'_ this and ' _my husband'_ that.”

Benvolio’s lips twitched in amusement.

“It seems she holds my opinion in much higher regard than she used to.”

“Not much longer I won’t,” Rosaline growled at him, before facing her troublemaking sister. “And you know very well I have never said either of those things.”

“Well, I am relieved to hear that,” Benvolio interjected smugly. “I would hate to find out you used to go around slandering me as a brute.”

Livia actually snickered at Benvolio’s reply, and Rosaline decided that enough was enough. It was about time they told the Abbess about the unexpected visitor anyway, she might as well do so now, and leave those two to their jesting.

But before she left the cell, she reminded her cheeky husband:

“I would not accuse anyone of slander in your place – you used to go around calling me a _harpy_ , remember?”

At least this time, Livia laughed at Benvolio instead of her own sister, so it seemed Rosaline had not lost her loyalty quite yet. Luckily, Benvolio did not seem to fault her for it: When the two began to follow Rosaline down the corridor to seek out the Abbess, Livia and Benvolio were already falling into easy conversation.

***

 

Despite the Abbess’ lack of enthusiasm for the request, Benvolio was allowed to stay the night at the convent. With only one horse between the three of them, Rosaline was at first afraid they would have to make their way back to Verona on foot, which she refused to let Benvolio do until he had had some rest. In the end, the Abbess had a better solution: She allowed them use of a carrier-pigeon to send a message to Verona and ask for someone to bring them horses for the trip back.

With or without horses, they would not be able to set out that day anyway. Travelling at night was too dangerous for their small group when escaped soldiers might still be roaming the area, and would probably not take kindly to running into travellers from Verona. Thus a cell was begrudgingly appointed to Benvolio in the wing of the convent inhabited by the old gardener and his apprentice – for him to sleep in _alone_ , as the Abbess emphasized with a stern sideways look at Rosaline – on the condition that he kept to his cell and stayed clear of the nuns’ quarters.

This they easily agreed to, and Rosaline and Livia simply kept Benvolio company in the small kitchen garden belonging to the men’s quarters for the rest of the evening. Sat on a bench by the garden wall, they listened to Benvolio's account of the liberation of Verona and the capture of Count Paris.

Rosaline felt uneasy at having Livia hear the whole tale, particularly the parts where Paris made an appearance. But her sister insisted on receiving a full report, and Benvolio heeded her wish but seemed to be carefully choosing his words: The gory details of the battle that had left him so shaken earlier were absent from the story now, as well as details of his interactions with Count Paris.

Livia listened, stone-faced but unflinching, and nodded grimly once Benvolio's story came to a close with his handing over the prisoner to the Prince.

“I guess Prince Escalus will have him executed for his crimes now.” Her voice was hollow, her posture rigid, and Rosaline could tell how much it cost her to stay so composed.

“It would be highly unusual,” Benvolio replied, and before Rosaline could wonder if he only intended to comfort her sister, he explained further: “As one of the Prince's citizens, his actions would be considered treason, and punished by death. But as the ruler of another city and a prisoner of war, killing him after he surrendered would be considered dishonourable on Prince Escalus' part. Verona and Venice might both find it more useful to send Paris into exile and divide up his wealth between them, or let him return to Mantua but impose crippling reparations for him to pay.”

“We'll see what happens then, I guess.” Livia's voice was thick with grief despite Benvolio's optimistic outlook on Paris' life, and Rosaline reached out to comfort her – but already, her sister was getting to her feet. “If you excuse me, I think I will go to bed now.”

Rosaline made to get up as well, unwilling to let her sister be alone in her grief – but Livia laid a hand on her arm and gently pushed her back down on the bench.

“Stay. I'll find my own way back.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Livia smiled, a little sad but genuine. “The two of you have only just been reunited when you were afraid never to see each other again. You deserve some time together.”

With that, she pressed a soft kiss to Rosaline's cheek, nodded a shaky smile at Benvolio, and left.

They both looked after her until the wooden gate to the garden swung shut behind her.

“Will she be alright? I would not fault you for going after her.”

Rosaline shook her head at Benvolio's worried inquiry. “She might wish to be alone, rather than have her own grief be made all the more apparent by my happiness.”

Benvolio nodded thoughtfully. “If you think so – I would not wish to come between the two of you.”

“You would find it impossible to achieve even if you tried, for we've promised each other not to let anything divide us any more, and least of all a man.”

With a smile at her words, uttered perhaps a little too forcefully, Benvolio sat on the bench beside her, after having kept a respectful distance for her sister's sake. Rosaline's insides broke into a happy little dance at having him suddenly so near, but she forced herself to focus on making her point, just to make it abundantly clear: She may have taken Benvolio's name, but when it came to her sister, her loyalties were still very much those of a Capulet.

“So you might as well prepare yourself for a future where none of your secrets are safe anymore.”

“I do not intend to have secrets that require safekeeping in the first place.”

“A wise decision,” Rosaline replied matter-of-factly, trying not to let it show how happy that promise made her. She'd dealt with enough secrets for a lifetime, and for the future of her marriage in particular, the prospect that Benvolio would continue to be as honest and open with her as he had always been was reassuring.

Scooting closer, she leaned into Benvolio's side, sighing contentedly when he understood her hint and put his arm around her shoulder to pull her close. Their earlier encounter had been wonderful, an explosive and very necessary release of all the strain of the past few days that still made her insides flutter just by thinking about it – but this moment seemed just as precious; a different but no less important kind of intimacy.

She simply enjoyed the moment in silence for some time, revelling in the simple facts of their existence in this moment: The quiet, interrupted only by the nightly song of the cicadas. The reassuring thickness of the convent's walls and the thought that they were most likely not needed, for there was no one left to persecute them. And, most importantly, the fact that they were _together_ , and could remain so as long as they pleased, provided they were willing to forgo sleep in favour of sitting on a narrow wooden bench all night – which for her part, Rosaline certainly was.

Another little sigh escaped her – as if her happiness was too much to be contained, and kept fleeing her body in wisps of air.

“I hope those are happy sighs,” Benvolio commented.

“Of course they are. I have both you and my sister back – how could I be anything but happy?”

“No regrets then?”

It was impossible to fathom what she could regret in this moment – but apparently, Benvolio had found a potential reason for remorse, and immediately begun to worry about it.

“About our marriage, I mean? The prospect of war might have changed your perspective; made you think there were things you could not live without when clearly you could...-”

Rosaline cut him off.

“Are you suggesting I might regret _marrying_ _you_? That I did not make the decision with more of my future in mind than mere _days_?”

The mere idea that that was where his thoughts had been when her own had been concerned with nothing but their happiness, present and future, was infuriating.

“And what of our... encounter, earlier? Did my behaviour speak of _regret_ to you? Did I fail to make it sufficiently clear then what having you back means to me?”

“I suppose you did...” Benvolio began, hesitantly, and Rosaline cut him off.

“Good! Because I can hardly repeat that here, can I?”

He looked around the kitchen garden, from the light shining out the window of the gardener's bedroom to the unlocked gate keeping them out of sight of the cloister garden. Then it was his turn to sigh heavily.

“No, I suppose not.”

“We'll have to wait until we've returned to Verona and secured some more private quarters,” Rosaline suggested, and the thought seemed to cheer him up even as it brought a new problem to Rosaline's attention. “Of course, we will first have to disclose that we are actually married.”

Oddly, this made Benvolio's smile turn from gleeful to sheepish.

“I... um... might have already done that.”

“To whom?”

“To... everyone, more or less.” He sat up straighter, as if preparing himself for a confrontation. “I brought Paris before the Prince and intended to leave right away to come for you, but then my uncle tried to make me stay, to make a big spectacle and connect the name of Montague with the city's liberation in people's memory no doubt, and I simply got impatient, and told them I had to go and find my wife. So of course they wanted to know who I was referring to...” He broke off, looking ever more unhappy. “If you had other plans, if you wanted to tell them yourself, and the Prince in particular... I apologize.”

“You have nothing to apologize for! Why should they not know we are married? And the sooner the better, for I will not accept objections from anyone, and perhaps this gives them time enough to get used to the news.”

“And what of the Prince?”

“Did it seem like he would object?” The fact that Benvolio assumed the Prince would need to be told separately of their wedding was instantly alarming.

“No, I just thought...” Benvolio did not finish the thought, and Rosaline was too focused on any potential threats to their happiness to wait for him.

“What of our uncles? Will they try to stand in our way?”

Benvolio shook his head. “I have made it clear to my uncle that not standing in our way will be the price for my silence. He'll pay me out and leave us alone, or be exposed as the murderer he is. And as for your uncle, I think I've managed to impress upon him that he has no choice but to go along with our wishes, or risk casting further scandal on his family name.”

Rosaline nodded, some of the tension easing out of her back as it sunk in that there was nothing to threaten their happiness. But Benvolio still looked uneasy.

“I also took the liberty of including Livia's freedom in our wishes: I suggested to your uncle that it would look bad for him if he refused to restore her to her former status, and made it clear that she would be under _our_ protection from now on, and not to be used for his profit like he tried to use you.”

This part of the story, which he had left out before for some unfathomable reason, was presented with increasing passion, until his last sentence came out with all the force of a holy oath – only for the anger behind it to simmer down again into trepidation.

“I hope you don't think me presumptuous for speaking on you and your sister's behalf – I know-...”

But she never got to find out what Benvolio thought he knew, for Rosaline could hold back no longer – she had to show him there was no reason to worry that his actions would offend her when the opposite was true: They made her feel like she would burst if she did not kiss him right this instant.

So kiss him she did, and with enough dedication to make sure they would be thrown out of the convent in a heartbeat if they were caught. She only drew back – reluctantly, and with memories of this afternoon fresher than ever on her mind – when the bench wobbled dangerously under them.

And because apparently her husband was not yet learned in the art of correctly interpreting her actions if their meaning was not expanded upon in words, she summed up that meaning for him once more.

“I love you,” she said, emphatically, and then finally remembered what other point of his she had intended to clear up earlier. “And of course I _could_ live without you, and you without me – but I'd much prefer not to."

***

The next morning, a small group of royal guards arrived with fresh horses for all three of them, and they made their way back to Verona in unexpected comfort – safe, well-rested, and under no immediate threat. The easy rapport between Benvolio and Livia continued to grow, and between humorous observations and demands for stories of their childhood, Benvolio managed to keep Livia entertained and distracted, and make the trip pass quickly.

It was only once they arrived at Verona that it occurred to Rosaline that she knew not where _exactly_ they were supposed to head there.

She had no need to figure it out, however: As soon as their little group had entered the city, a messenger from the palace came to greet them, and escort them there straight-away – on Isabella's orders, which made Rosaline's protest die on her lips. Either Isabella had already made plans for them, or she would Rosaline help figure out their next steps.

But in the end, though Isabella greeted them at the palace, their interaction was kept brief. Her friend informed her that Escalus wanted to speak to her, sent her towards the Prince's private quarters (aware that Rosaline knew well where they were located, but that the guards and servants around them ought not to be made aware of this fact), and promised to take care of Livia for the time being.

Rosaline was reluctant to part with her sister, and had no doubt that Isabella's promise to look after Livia was based not only on a wish to welcome her back but to question her about her husband and any lingering loyalty to him. Rosaline was loath to let her sister be exposed to such an interrogation when her pain was still so fresh, but Isabella, apparently sensing her unease, promised that she would take good care of Livia – and more importantly, pointed out under her breath that it might be best to sequester Livia away from the ladies at court, who were burning with curiosity to see the Capulet servant girl turned would-be-princess for themselves.

The promise to keep Livia safe from prying eyes and wagging tongues at last succeeded in winning Rosaline over to the plan, and Livia was whisked away, to stay at the Princess' quarters until it was decided where they would be living from now on. Then she and Benvolio continued on, wordlessly deciding not to separate again.

Escalus received her alone in his private quarters, once more banished to his bed by his sister’s concern for his health. The door had been left open, however, either out of deference to Rosaline's reputation or out of politeness towards her husband, who remained, for the moment, waiting outside as Rosaline went in.

Now, Rosaline was sitting by the ottoman Escalus was resting on, not entirely sure what she was still doing there.

She had reassured herself that Escalus was recovering well from his injury. Had been told that the situation at Verona was well in hand again, and that, under Isabella's firm rule, chaos had never got a chance to get a lasting grip on the city. Had given a very brief overview of her recent adventures and winning over Venice's support, and received the Prince's heartfelt gratitude for it along with a promise that more gratitude was forthcoming, as a feast would be held to honour her and Benvolio both.

And somehow, after these topics had been discussed, Rosaline found there was nothing more she wanted to speak about. She was relieved to see that Escalus was alive and recovering speedily, but other than that, there was nothing in particular she felt the need to discuss with him. She had no need for anyone's gratitude for her part in liberating Verona, for her goal had only ever been to see her sister home; and she felt disinclined to share any of the more harrowing details of her adventures: The Doge's pressure to give in to his licentious demands in return for his cooperation, the pain of parting with Benvolio and not knowing whether he was alive or dead for several days, the terror of finding her sister only to almost have their escape thwarted... All these were the true costs of Verona's freedom – but none were things she wanted to disclose before her Prince.

Where she had felt a need to speak of the pressures of the past weeks, she had done so with her sister and Benvolio, and trusted that she could do so again should the memories return to plague her. There was nothing that she needed of Escalus – and he seemed to have noticed as much: After a prolonged silence, Rosaline was just about to take her leave when he reached out for her hand.

“I've well and truly lost you, haven't I?“

There was genuine sadness on his face, and Rosaline felt for him – but not enough to spur her mind into treading a path of “what if”: What if they had been allowed to be together, back when they had wanted nothing more? What if he had reneged on his decree that she and Benvolio should marry, and had married her himself instead, rather than give her hope that he might only to turn around and break her heart?

But none of these things mattered any more.

“You've not lost me as a friend, nor as a loyal citizen.”

“But you'll never love me again.” This frankness was unexpected, downright shocking given how careful he had been to conceal his feelings for her for the sake of political balance in their city. It deserved an equally candid reply.

“Not in the way I used to, no.” Her eyes fell on her husband, a dark silhouette just outside the open door, and she figured now was as good a time as any to make it apparent where her loyalties lay. “Besides, I am a married woman now.”

Escalus' eyes flickered over to the door as well.

“'tis true then? Montague mentioned something like this when he brought Count Paris before me, but I knew not what to make of it.”

Rosaline nodded.

“He spoke the truth. We passed by an abbey on the way back from Venice and asked the Abbot to marry us. Benvolio was going to fight in the vanguard and I did not know...”, she swallowed hard, felt tears sting at her eyes and scratch the back of her throat at the thought of what lay behind them. But dark though the memory was, it would not do to shrink back from it now. "We did not know if we would ever see each other again."

It had only been a day since she had been reunited with Benvolio, and the painful days before that moment were still fresh on her mind – the fear, the uncertainty, the praying, _Lord,_ the praying. She must have said more prayers in the last weeks than in all her life before – for her sister, for Escalus, for her city. For  Benvolio, most of all.

The tears began falling now, which astounded her, for surely _now_ there was no reason for them anymore. They were safe, the city back under their control, Paris  awaiting execution. But the memory of those dark hours remained, stronger than ever. She lifted a hand to clumsily wipe at the tears that kept falling.

“I'm sorry, I know not what has come over me.”

“You were scared. We all were, these past days.”

Rosaline could only nod, still sniffling in a most ungenteel manner.

“But we're at peace now, and with your husband cleared of all charges, and restored as heir of House Montague, you can look forward to a comfortable life.” He smiled, though there seemed to be a hint of bitterness tinting his voice. “Not to mention enjoy the people's gratitude – the saviours of Verona.”

Rosaline laughed shakily.

“I have a feeling the people's memory will not last very long when it comes to that.”

“But mine will.”

Rosaline was unsure what he meant, what to think of it, and so only nodded politely. But Escalus seemed intent on making his point, even reaching out to take her hand again.

She let him.

“I have wronged you both, I know that. And I feel deeply regretful about that now. I thought... I thought what I was doing would save our city.” A laugh, small and unusually self-deprecating. “And in the end, it was the two of you who did.”

“You thought you were doing the right thing.” The forgiveness she was offering was premature perhaps, for in her heart, she felt far from it. Too vibrant still was the mental image of Benvolio kneeling on that scaffold, awaiting an execution Escalus had ordered for no other reason than it seemed the easiest solution. But after all they had been through, Rosaline wanted nothing more than to leave all that pain and bitterness behind her. For _herself_ , she needed no more justice. “It is not me you should apologize to.”

Escalus' face closed off, as she expected it to. It was not hard to notice that there was no love left between him and her husband. But Benvolio deserved an apology, he deserved respect and praise, and if Escalus was serious about wanting her to forgive him, he would have to swallow his pride.

She let go of his hand and got to her feet.

“I am glad to see you on the road to recovery.”

When she turned to the door, it was to see Benvolio watching them. She smiled, but her smile was not returned equally. There was a hesitation on Benvolio's face, a shadow like that cast by bad memories. But those memories would fade, she knew - she would fight them just like she had fought all other enemies to their happiness, and she would start right now.

Upon reaching him, she laid her hand on Benvolio's arm, pausing to press a kiss to his cheek, in full view of the open door to the Prince's chambers – not to be cruel, but to make it clear that she stood by her choice.

“We can go now, though I expect Escalus will want to speak to you at some point.”

“Have you said all you needed to say to the Prince then?”

There was a hard edge to Benvolio's voice, and she suspected she knew what caused it, knew what kind of doubts plagued him right now: That she still loved Escalus, would still be happier with him. It was untrue, she knew – she could never be happier than she was with the man fate had placed at her side. She had denied Benvolio's doubts about her feelings for Escalus before, and she would not rest until she had dispersed them altogether.

She led them out into the palace garden through a nearby door.

“I have. I've confirmed your report of our marriage. I reminded him that he owes you an apology. And I assured him that he may never expect more than friendship from me again.”

The shadow on Benvolio's face lifted slightly, brightened by hope that still was not quite allowed to shine through. She took his hands in hers, felt them tremble under her fingertips for a moment before grasping back, firm but gentle.

“I love _you_. No one else. And _you_ are who I intend to spend the rest of my life with.”

“The rest of our lives...” he repeated, dazed, and then laughed softly. “I hadn't thought I had much left of that. I've no idea what to do now.”

“Well,” Rosaline smiled, lacing her fingers through his to pull him back inside and down the corridor to the exit. “For now, we go home. You can take a bath and a nap and then we'll figure it out.”

"A bath sounds wonderful."

"I knew that idea would appeal to you," she replied, mirroring his slow smile, and then, because there was no one nearby and because she could, she stopped to kiss him, slow and luxuriating, taking as much time as she felt like because time was finally something they had to spare.

The faint sound of giggling made them break apart eventually, disappearing down the corridor with a pair of kitchen maids who were apparently quite amused by their display of spousal devotion.

"We should get going," Rosaline suggested sensibly, only to ruin the attempt at respectability by leaning in to whisper in his ear: "Perhaps we can share that bath."

"I'm sure that can be arranged," was his eager reply, followed by a kiss to the side of her neck that most certainly did not constitute respectable behaviour in public, much less the Prince's palace.

Urgency made him keep the caress brief, however, and soon they stepped through the palace gates and onto the street – and Benvolio promptly became aware of yet another problem.

“I'm not sure where we might go to have that bath, however – I do not think I have a home in this city anymore. Not in my uncle's house, in any case.”

Rosaline could understand that feeling all too well, and felt similarly reluctant to return to the house she had been forced to call her home the past few years. But perhaps...

“There may be another place for us. But we'll have to take a room at an inn, at least for the duration of your bath – beautiful though it is, the place I have in mind will require some work before it is altogether inhabitable again.”

Benvolio raised his eyebrows questioningly, and Rosaline answered the unspoken question.

“My parents' house. It is still in my uncle's possession, but I'm sure he will be easily convinced to sign it over to us, if we remind him that he and my aunt are lucky to have escaped the prince's justice.”

Benvolio hesitated, studying her for a moment.

“Do you think you might be happy there, with all the memories of your parents? You said your father died there.”

Rosaline considered it as they kept on walking.

“He did – but before that, he _lived_ there, for many happy years. I think the memories of those years should be more powerful than the few bad moments, terrible though they were. It was a happy home for me once – who's to say it cannot become one again?”

“If that is where you want to live, we shall make sure it will be.”

And that said, they turned left: towards the Capulet side of town, and her parents' old house by the river.

Towards their new home.

 

 


	18. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, here's part three of the Big Damn Happy Ending. Because (all together now): They Deserve It!  
> (With a quick callback to the song that gave the fic its title and that is one of my favourite Rosvolio songs: "All I Need" by Mat Kearney.

_I'm holding on to you holding on to me_

_Maybe it's all we've got, but it's all I need_

_You're all I need_

  


A little over one year after Romeo Montague and Juliet Capulet had been driven to take their own lives by the war between their families, Benvolio Montague stood by his cousin's grave to report that the peace inspired by their deaths was still holding – and that he himself was still making his daily contribution to it by honouring his union with a daughter of House Capulet.

Due to his cousin's role in bringing about this union, and since Romeo had been the last member of the Montague family who had genuinely cared about him, Benvolio had made it a regular habit to visit the Montague family crypt and keep his cousin updated – and there was a lot to update him on, and one thing more astonishing than the other.

First and most important, there was the fact that not only was the bond between their families holding strong, but Benvolio's Capulet wife continued to be the best thing about his life, and had set it on a course he could not have imagined in his wildest dreams a year ago.

For one thing, Benvolio had gone from being reviled as a “gutter scoundrel” by his ruler and suffering the jeers of his fellow citizens as he walked to his execution, to being invited to every big house in the city, and listened to when he spoke of what he thought his city needed. And the reason behind this change in how he was regarded was the very same woman who had made it possible that he was standing here, by the grave of the man he had always considered a brother, and _not_ wish it was him lying in the crypt in Romeo's place. Instead, he could say of the life that had been spared for him that it was a good one, full and happy and productive.

Rosaline had somehow foreseen this change, months ago when he had only just returned from the battlefield, and had told him that his role in the liberation of Verona would make him one of the city's first citizens – although sometimes, that distinction felt more like a curse than a blessing, for it meant attending lengthy meetings and visits with fellow upstanding citizens each week. Still, despite these often tedious engagements, Benvolio was glad that Rosaline had been correct, and had urged him to heed the calls when they came. After all, this was _their_ city, and he would not see it run to the brink of ruin by greed, ignorance and folly again.

Rosaline felt similarly and, he suspected, played just as big a part in pulling the strings of their city's fate than he did, though she was present at much fewer official meetings. What time Benvolio spent debating the city's interests with her eminent men, Rosaline spent having tea and shopping for dresses and taking walks through well-manicured gardens with her ladies, first among them Princess Isabella and her new consort from Venice – and oftentimes when Benvolio came home to tell his wife about some decision he had long helped to prepare, Rosaline already knew its outcome, and who had argued with the Prince for which side, and for what reason. (The answer to the last question, it turned out more often than not, being because their wife had told them to, after talking it over with her friends at tea.)

When they were not busy with meetings and visits, their life was filled with other things, work and pleasure alike, but thankfully free of worries for the most part. Now that they no longer had to bow to their families' whims, there was time enough for Benvolio to draw and Rosaline to read, and the only family member they regularly set their private enjoyments aside for was Livia, who had decided to train with the Sisters running the city's hospital and was considering joining their convent.

Benvolio's uncle had kept true to his word and paid Benvolio a sum of the Montague fortune large enough to sustain them comfortably until the end of their days. Neither he nor Rosaline had aspirations to accumulate more wealth or influence than they currently possessed, and so they only needed to concern themselves with mercantile questions enough to make sure their wealth and status would allow them to keep having a say in the city's concerns, and make sure their fortune would remain large enough to sustain their children after them.

For the first few months of their marriage, those children had been nothing more than hypothetical concepts – being both legally married and financially secure, they took no particular care to prevent conception, but neither of them felt a particularly strong urge to procreate either. They had been busy enough, both with getting settled into their new roles and with occasionally fleeing those exact same roles by travelling in the manner Benvolio had imagined when he had ridden out of Venice by Rosaline's side: Visiting ancient ruins and sprawling libraries and cluttered artists' workshops and glorying in the feeling that the world was big, and theirs to explore together.

As of today, however, that would change: Soon, neither their fortune nor their time would be theirs alone, to spend as they pleased. This morning, Rosaline had awoken him to share news so fresh she had not even discussed them with her sister yet: For the past two weeks Rosaline had felt nauseous in the morning but had detected no other sign of illness – and today, she had told him that her menses had been delayed significantly, and she expected the reason to be that she was with child.

Which meant that Benvolio was going to be a _father_.

Since Rosaline had told him that this was something they could hope for – and _hope_ it was, that much they had decided upon quickly and unanimously – Benvolio had spent most of the day up until now trying to decide how _exactly_ he felt about this news.

For a moment, before the information really nestled itself into his mind, he had been distracted with the observation that his wife looked particularly lovely today, and had briefly wondered if she might be persuaded to postpone her social engagements this morning if he offered an alternative pastime (in their bedroom, preferably).

Then he had been elated, guided by Rosaline's tentatively happy expression. There had been kisses to administer, and a promise to make that he would procure anything she might need for her health or comfort, no matter the cost or the effort – a promise Rosaline had made him repeat, twice, with a wicked little smile.

And then, trickling gradually into his consciousness, there had been fear: A child would mean a million things to worry about, starting with the unimaginable danger of bringing it into this world. It would mean someone to look after and provide for who was not, like his wife, a capable and equal partner but someone truly helpless. And besides the bare necessity of keeping it alive and healthy, the child would need an education, in knowledge as well as in morals, and seeing as he himself had been well equipped materially but lacking in moral guidance during his youth, Benvolio had suddenly doubted if he could even provide such an education.

Luckily, by the time he left for his weekly visit to the family crypt, Rosaline, in her inimitably brave and patient manner, had managed to dissipate most of his fears. Calmly and succinctly, she had explained to him that these were all questions they would figure out together, problems they would tackle as they arose, and dangers they would have to trust in God to deliver them from.

Once that reassuring message had finally penetrated his panic, his earlier excitement had returned, and grown into anticipation with every step he took towards the cemetery. Despite all the uncertainty, he decided now, becoming a father meant one thing: It meant a second chance.

He could make up for everything he had missed out on after his parents' deaths, and make sure this child (and any who might come after it, though he found it hard to think that far ahead now) would never for a second have to wonder if there was anyone who loved it – for as long as Benvolio lived, there would be. He would spoil the child rotten and leave Rosaline to deal with the consequences, who would no doubt be much better at handing out educational sermons and warning slaps on the wrist. And he would work twice as hard to make sure their city would always remain peaceful and secure, and their house a comfortable home for them to grow up in.

Really, the only thing he did _not_ look forward to at this point was the necessity of preparing that house for the arrival of a child. After they had decided to move into Rosaline's childhood home, they had spent months restoring it, and more than once, their bickering over paint colours and curtain lengths must have caused their servants and neighbours to wonder if the old war between their houses was about to break out again.

Now, it seemed inevitable that similar discussions would have to be held again, once a room had been chosen as a nursery. Rosaline would probably want the child to be surrounded by airy shades of Capulet blue, to inspire lofty thoughts, while Benvolio was determined to stand his ground in favour of warmer tones, shades of yellow and orange perhaps. Long, heated debates were sure to precede these decisions, the kind that made the servants hide out in the kitchen, the laundry or the stables until the storm had passed.

But as he knew from experience, these kinds of discussions were usually resolved, with the same passion with which they were fought and the same patience with which the two of them overcame all difficulties together, in the privacy of their bedroom.

On second thought, perhaps he looked forward to that part as well.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was it such a cliché to have them end happily married with a kid on the way? Yes.  
> Do I regret it? No. They deserve it. They deserve everything. I made myself cry (again) with this chapter because just imagine if we had gotten to see them get to this point, together and safe and happy.  
> Sigh.  
> Anyway, let's not finish this on a sad note - come read my Rosvolio reality dating show-AU if you feel like it. It's absoluely bonkers and I have no idea what I'm doing with it but I'm sure we'll have great fun.  
> And finally, I'd like to thank everyone who commented on this fic, who cheered me on and motivated me to keep writing. After being robbed of the show and all the glorious potential those two character held, writing this has been almost therapeutic for me - a chance to explore how their beautiful relationship might continue to grow and how they might finally get to a place of happiness together. It's been a joy to write and a pleasure to have you along.


End file.
